


Time Heals No Wounds

by fouryearslater (CheshireCatLife)



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Body Swap, Captain America and Young Bucky, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Shrunkyclunks, Time Travel, Winter Soldier and Young Steve
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-03-11
Packaged: 2019-10-04 20:06:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 40,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17311016
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CheshireCatLife/pseuds/fouryearslater
Summary: In an event that no one is ready for, Steve swaps with his former self, finding himself in 1930s Brooklyn with the knowledge that he's probably just left his former self in the care of a semi-stable, brainwashed assassin.Well, shit.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hi! This fic was a little self-indulgent but I was curious to write the relationship between the Winter Soldier (although fairly healed) and Skinny!Steve but it's been fun and I hope you guys enjoy it. 
> 
> Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated! (as well as constructive criticism. I think it's hugely helpful, especially if there's a major error so please do if you spot something very noticeable, or even something small)
> 
> Updates every Sunday!

_Steve laughed at the mirth that filled Bucky’s grin, their arms interlocked in a tangle of limbs - three flesh, one metal - Bucky’s head resting on Steve’s shoulder, just as it once had on Bucky’s. After a serum-induced growth spurt, a war and a cryogenic sleep episode they hadn’t had time for this: for them. In all their woes and troubles, they forgot about the freedom they’d been granted. ‘I love you,’ Steve whispered into Bucky’s ear, smile cutting across his cheeks and filling his defined features._

_A second passed and Bucky had pulled away. ‘Steve?’ He sounded panicked, why was he panicked? His head heaved forward and Steve felt the pull of nausea in his stomach. ‘Bucky?’ He mouthed, eyes wide in his own panic._

_Black enveloped him before he even had the chance to realise it had._

* 

Steve woke up with the gradual sense that he was being watched. Piercing blue eyes matched his own, squinted and groggy. “Bucky?” Steve whispered into the darkness, pushing a hand up to the man’s hair and finding himself freezing. Too short. Not long. Short. His hand ran smoothly down the plane of Bucky’s back and to his left arm - flesh, not metal, flesh.

“You okay, Stevie?” Bucky mumbled into Steve’s chest, blue eyes lulling shut.

“Oh, yeah. I just...I’m sorry about yesterday. I don’t know what happened.” Steve reassured himself, smiling as he ran a hand up Bucky’s flesh arm, a smile alighting his face as the hairs rose and the nerves sparked under his gentle fingertips - must be his right arm, Steve told himself. It was still dark, he could hardly tell.

“Yesterday? What happened yesterday?” Bucky, finally forcing himself out of his hypnagogic relaxation, looked up at him with precision, eyes scanning for the telltale signs of madness.

“I…I blacked out, Bucky. Do you not...did I not?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about Steve. You must have been having one hell of a dream.” Bucky laughed, leaning forward so his chin was resting comfortably on Steve’s chest. On Steve’s very...small chest.

“Bucky…” Steve warned, his breath picking up a pace, his heart beating like it did before a fight.

“What is it, Stevie?”

“Bucky, get away from me. Right now. Just move away.” Steve watched like a rabid animal as Bucky inched backwards, hands raised in surrender.

“What’s wrong, Stevie, you gotta tell me. Whatever's happening, you gotta speak t’ me about it.”

“Just stay there.” Stevie reached over to the first lamp he spotted, staring down at himself like he had an alien’s body. His eyes darted upwards, meeting Bucky’s with expectant hopefulness: of course Tony would burst out any moment now and say ‘what an elaborate prank and a great use of my technology’ and walk off in all his usual swagger.

He didn’t. He most definitely didn’t.

“Where are we?” Steve whispered, pushing himself back and huddling against the cushions with his arms wrapped around his knees like he always did in this body, one much more fitting of the childish weaknesses that could be protecting with such a simple thing as wrapping oneself in their own arms.

“In the motel, Stevie. Y’ said that your ma wouldn’t mind.”

“A motel? Why?” Steve’s features bunched in confusion, the juxtaposition of the way he spoke to the little Brooklyn boy’s body he was in throwing him into another spiral of fear and perplexity.

Bucky huffed a humourless laugh. “I think you know the answer to that.” For the first time, Steve noticed what they were wearing, only a pair of boxers between them. They’d been sharing a bed. Steve could fill in the rest.

But that didn’t explain why they were in a motel.

“I really don’t.” Steve returned, warily glancing around the room for possible escape routes. “Tony?” He called out, just in case. “You there? This was you, right?”

He was cut out by the quick sniper of Bucky’s voice: “who the hell is Tony?” Steve thought his heart couldn’t get ripped out any more. But, here it was, torn to shreds. First, Steve had lost him. Then, Bucky had lost the memory of him. And after all that, Bucky now had the audacity to pretend he didn’t know Tony, with the exact same words that he said he hadn’t known Steve.

“Stop it, Buck. This isn’t funny.” Steve warned, huddling closer to himself, staring down at his fragile body. “Why...why am I...why am I small again?”

“What’s happening? Are you ill? Please don’t tell me you’re ill again, you only just got better. And I know you’re small, Stevie, but you’ve only lost a bit of weight. Pneumonia could never beat you, huh?” Bucky tried to joke, it was lost on it’s audience.

“Pneumonia? I haven’t had pneumonia in years. I can’t get it anymore.”

“Of course you can. What’s stopping it.”

“I mean the whole...super soldier serum thing that happened.” Steve was slowly unravelling himself, staring down at Bucky with a peculiar curiosity. This wasn’t the Winter Soldier he was talking to, he noted, no, this was Bucky. His Bucky. From all that time ago. He really was dreaming, even if it was a little too elaborate to enjoy.

“Super soldier? God, that shit must have really fucked you up in the head.”

“What...shit?” Steve asked, the curse like venom on his tongue.

Bucky finally approached him again, trying to look as relaxed as possible like he was dealing with an animal and not his best-friend, his lover. “The morphine, idiot. You got a heavy dose outta them doctor’s. Didn’t do much good, though, did it?”

“You really think I was ill, don’t you?” Steve realised, sitting cross-legged opposite his friend. “Wait.” He paused, the thought barraging his head. “What’s the date?”

Bucky answered like it was the simplest thing in the world: “Sunday. 19th March.”

“What year, Bucky.”

Now he looked even more puzzled. “1939.”

“Holy shit.” Steve fell back against the headrest of the bed, the wood squawking in protest.

“What? What’s wrong with this year?”

“Bucky,” Steve set his gaze on Buck’s without an ounce of hesitation, desperate for him to understand what was going on, for both of them to know what was going on, “It was 1939 about…80 years ago.”

“What the hell are you talking about? It is 1939.”

“No, no it isn’t, Bucky. It’s 2018. I mean you wouldn’t guess it from the state of this place and you really need to tell me how you found this place but it is. Are you okay? I mean, this isn’t Winter Soldier, is it? It can’t be.”

“Steve, you’re making no sense. It’s 1939. We’re in a motel in 1939. And who’s the Winter Soldier? Sounds ominous…”

“You really don’t know…” Steve gaped at his best friend, pity lacing his round, blue eyes.

“Know what?”

“It’s 2018, Buck.”

“No it’s not! How can it be? I would be like 100 years old! And I think,” he waved his hands frantically over himself, “that we both know I’m not.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, Buck. You...both of us...some stuff happened to us and we didn’t live a lot of the time between the 1940s and the new millennium. I don’t know how I’m supposed to make this easy for you but we’re in the future.”

“Stevie, you’ve gone crazy! It’s 1939. We’re in a motel. You and I...we’re together. You remember that, right?”

“Of course, Buck. But I know it’s not 1939, Buck, I would remember otherwise. In the future. I wouldn’t just…” Steve trailed off, at a loss for words. Bucky sighed, crawling around Steve until Steve’s head was leant back against Bucky’s chest.

“It’s alright. It’s alright.” Bucky reassured, stroking a hand through Steve’s hair. “Whatever’s going on up there,” he tapped a finger lightly against Steve’s head, “doesn’t matter. For now, it’s just us. Here. How about we just forget about it for now, okay?” Steve nodded despite knowing that he couldn’t just forget. This was one of two possibilities and Steve found himself bitter about both of them. One, he’d just dreamed a few years up and that was all one big fantasy. Two, Tony had something bad, really bad, and Steve’s consciousness had somehow ended up in his old body, back in time.

Time travel.

Shit.

*

Bucky woke with the fear that was something was off: ever since Hydra had buzzed his brains out, there was no reason not to trust his intuition. With slow grace, he peeled himself from his place on the sofa (the exact place he’d blacked out, thank god) and stalked to a dark corner, scanning the room. “Steve,” he whispered, only loud enough that a man with enhanced hearing could detect it. “Steve,” he tried again, letting Bucky Barnes (the coward of this symbiotic relationship between man and soldier) call out a little louder.

Steve didn’t answer but it wasn’t long before Bucky spotted him. Huddled in a corner, a large bulk of a figure sat stoically, posture too rigid, looking out at the room like it was a game he’d have to win. Bucky crawled forward, his metal arm whirring in the darkness, preparing for a fight.

“Steve,” he hissed, “Steve, look at me,” he ordered. If Steve…if Steve had started to go insane, Bucky didn’t know what he was supposed to do. Bucky needed help, help he wouldn’t take. But Steve, Steve was there for him, even if a little too forcefully at times; he was the one that dragged him from the dregs of his mind and pushed him into the light. Steve was the beacon that kept him alive (the only thing that kept him alive.

Steve’s eyes shot up, bloodshot and frantic - subtle enough to hide his fear, not subtle enough for _Bucky_ not to notice. “Who are you?” Steve asked, voice trembling minutely.

“Steve, it’s me,” Bucky introduced softly, trying to hold it together, trying not to shake, trying not to punch his goddamn mug of his goddamn face. “It’s just me.”

“Who are you?!” Steve pushed, trembling wracking up his bulky features. “And why…” he began, looking down at himself “why am I so _big_?” He looked back up to Bucky again, eyes enlarging just a little when the blink of lights from the outside world flitters through the window and reflects off Bucky’s metal arm. “Are you going to kill me?”

“Fuckin’ hell, Steve. Of course I’m not going to kill you,” Bucky assured but Steve was too busy staring at his hands, the wrongness of his body, the unfamiliar feeling of his enlarged emotions.

“What’s happening to me?” Steve choked out, beginning to tremble. “Please, just, if you’re gonna kill me, do it quickly.”

Bucky stared down in shock, looking down at the little man in a big man’s body and felt the tremors begin to wrack his own body. “I ain’t gonna kill you punk,” Bucky sighed, letting Brooklyn slip into his accent once again, “ain’t gonna do nothing like that.” Steve looked up at Bucky like he’d been burned and looked over Bucky’s face for the first time, staring at the blue irises - turned ice blue over the years of freezing - dimpled chin, thick eyebrows, familiar face shape. That nose. Oh my god, that nose, the one Steve would unnecessarily bring up just to joke about Bucky’s heritage.

“Bucky?” He breathed, his entire body caving in onto itself.

“Yeah, it’s me, punk.”

“But you- you have-“

“I know,” Bucky sighed, bringing up a hand to Steve’s cheek and stroking softly against the cheekbone. “A lot has happened. Where do you think you are, Stevie?” Steve looked up, big eyes protruding from his face like a frog’s, and swallowed down his fear. “I was…it was 19th March. Buck and I…you and I, we were in a motel.”

“I’m sorry, pal. My memory, it’s not great. Can you tell me what year it was?”

“1939. Is it not…is it not 1939?” Bucky smiled sadly and brought his hand down into his lap and sat cross-legged in front of the man he’d just been learning to love again.

“It’s 2018, Steve.”

“But- but. But, that means you would be- You should be dead,” Steve stammered out, fumbling to match Bucky’s position at an attempt at normality. “You would be…” Steve said as he settled, counting the years in his head. “A hundred-years-old.”

“Yeah, pal. Like I said, a lot’s happened. Celebrated a century of life just over a week ago.”

“Does that mean,” Steve started, eyes widening with hope and not fear, “that science, you know all that sci-fi stuff, has come true. Do humans live longer?”

Bucky’s face fell, his body slumping. “No, sorry. As I said, a lot happened to me for me to be here.”

“Is that why you have that arm?” Bucky nodded. “So what about me? I shouldn’t be here. What’s happened?”

Bucky scratched the back of his head and thought. “When does the war start? Has the war started?”

“My dad died in the war. You know that. It’s over.”

“Ok, so it hasn’t started. Steve, in a couple of months, Europe is going to go to war. In a few years, the world is gonna be at war. And for that war, you gonna do a lot of shit that I’m not gonna be happy with you doing but you’re gonna do it anyway. But, at the end of it, you end up dying because you’re a stupid punk who can’t save his life for anything. But then, one of your friend’s sons is gonna wake you up and you’re gonna find me. Right now, you and my Steve, I think, have swapped. Unless he’s hidden around here too. I don’t know why and I don’t remember the switch happening back then but look, we’re gonna have to get you through this and we’re gonna get you back to where you’re supposed to be.” Bucky took a deep breath and tried to calm his frayed nerves, he hadn’t said that many words in months - no - _years_. He was surprised he hadn’t slipped into Russian, or German, or anything, really.

“So…it’s 2018?”

“Yeah, pal. It is.”

“Oh god.” Bucky could sense immediately when Steve started to panic: his breath picked up, his eyes started to dart, his chest heaved like he was expecting an asthma attack.

“Pal, _pal!_. Calm down. Come on, yeah, calm down,” Bucky coaxed, thinking back to all the times Steve had taken him out of his reverie and thrown him into the mess of reality. “Come on, please, pal. Stevie. Come on.” Steve’s breathing began to even out but his trembling only got worse.

Bucky didn’t know what to do. So he did the only thing he knew how to do. He let his eyes glaze over, his eyebrows come down into a frown and his mouth shut. Winter Soldier, present.

“Soldat,” Bucky spat, motioning at Steve to stand, giving him a perfect example. “Up,” he hissed in Russian. Steve scrambled to his feet, trying to understand the oddly large space he was taking up, fumbling into the wall before standing tall (he even looked proud, if only for a millisecond, that he was _taller_ than Bucky).

“Bucky? Bucky, what’s happened to you.”

“Asset, present, ready to comply,” he strung together in Russian - trying to piece together the fragments of his scattered memory in hopes of gluing a picture back together. He hated this act but it worked - it worked every time.

“Bucky?!” Steve worried frantically. “Bucky, come back. Bucky, come on I need you.” Bucky just needed to wait, just needed the panic to settle into the back of his mind and for logic to come henceforth. “Bucky?” Steve whispered, like he was taking to a man across the room, looking straight through the soldier. Suddenly, though, the plan set in place. Steve took a few deep breaths, closed his eyes and took on the Captain America face. Standing tall, shoulders jutted back, eyes hard and impossible to defy, he stated simply, “Bucky, come back.” Bucky immediately stripped himself of the Winter Soldier, wincing at the rancid taste it left in his mouth, and let himself breathe.

“I’m back. Thank you.”

“Good,” Steve said, haughtily holding his chin up. “If I’m gonna deal with this future, jerk, I need you to be sane up here,” Steve said, pointing to his brain. Bucky smiled weakly and nodded.

“Can do, pal.”

“Okay, so what’s the plan?”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve doesn't adjust to well to the new realisation that he's in the past, nor does Steve adjust well to the fact that his friends are not to be trusted but lied to. Things don't end well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! This update actually came out on Sunday which is a surprise. I edited this myself but it didn't proofread it therefore I apologise for any minor errors :) (large ones are just completely my fault XD) On a different note, thank you so much for all the kudos so far. I didn't think, of the few short things I published last week, that this would be the one to get attention but it's great that it has.
> 
> Comments and kudos are much appreciated :)
> 
> -fouryearslater

Steve was having a hard time adjusting to his new body. The small, fragile (weak as he’d so often defy) body was something he’d grown out of and learnt to leave behind. Crackable bones, bullet-susceptible skin and a growing list of ailments was not something Steve was ready to deal with again, certainly not after spending literal _years_ adjusting to his new, enhanced frame.

Bucky did his best to help but seemed to fall short of helping every attempt he threw himself at. They’d left the motel yesterday, only for Steve to have an asthma attack from trying to walk too fast (as if he had long legs again) and then for him to faint due to malnutrition. Overall, it wasn’t too great, especially when Bucky decided to tell him off for not eating and Steve had started to shout about how he was a jerk who should have thought to give the man who’d just shape-shifted, time-travelled and - on top of all that - found his best-friend and partner that just wasn’t quite with him in the future anymore _any food_.

Still, Bucky was trying and Steve had to applaud that. They’d made it back to Brooklyn, giving Winifred (Bucky’s mother) a very solid excuse for missing their weekly family dinner: something about job-seeking and wandering too far to return and other blather. The look she gave them, though, said _everything_ (not that Bucky would ever notice but Steve saw those looks constantly from his teammates, he knew what it meant). They’d then made there way a few doors down to the small apartment they shared and that was when it just…

Hit.

He was living in the past. He was actually, really, living in the past. All that reminiscence and nostalgia was becoming his reality and all he could think about was how much he _hated_ it. This wasn’t his to have. This was his old self’s to experience. He’d moved on, he’d learnt to cope - to love - modern life. And now he was stuck a century in the past, without his friends, without Bucky (not the one he’d learnt to love now anyway). And fuck, he needed to get back to him. Bucky needed him. _Bucky needed him!_

This Bucky, though, just flitted around him, checking in on him as often as he could - only physically, of course, Steve in this body was nothing more than a child to look after (Steve didn’t really want to think about how Sam would say that it was because this was a man from the forties, back in an era where they didn’t speak about ‘feelings’). In the first few hours, or days (Steve really hadn’t been keeping track) nothing much happened.

He tried to discuss the problem with Bucky but his own information was based off flimsy experience and assumption and he was tired, ill and fell into silence easy: the conversation was going nowhere. At some point, Bucky finally brought up his Steve - what had happened to _him_? Steve had lied through his teeth; “we swapped”, he said; “I’m sure of it,” he said.

But it was then that he could feel the panic begin to grow, festering within his body like a parasite. He may have told Bucky that they swapped but that didn’t mean he _believed_ him. Steve, for all he knew, was stuck here, in an era he’d grown to hate out of the fond nostalgia from his safety in the modern world. He missed when times were simple, he used to say. He didn’t really think about how shit it was living those simple times, though. Already, Bucky had had to give up meals just to feed Steve through his illnesses and the portions will still meagre. Steve didn’t have an inhaler for his asthma so was stuck wheezing for hours on end. Their love was still ridiculed, a secret, and the perpetual cause of the nagging guilt in the back of his mind.

Bucky could do better.

Bucky could get a lovely doll if he just left Steve behind.

Fuck, apparently, being back in the past meant that Steve’s old mindset settled back in. He’d gotten over this. He’d-

The panic turned to indignation, pulling him in like the tide, lulling and slow but with effortless strength.

“You’re definitely feeling ok-“ Bucky began but Steve was quick to snap, his head spinning with preternatural speed that he’d been used to in a body that it had once been truly capable of it. “If you ask me that one more time,” he breathed, gritting his teeth as he tried to settle the raging flame into a seething spark. His efforts were mostly futile. “Okay,” Bucky deliberated, placing his hands up placatingly, “I’ll stop asking. Have people finally stopped asking how you are in that distant future of yours?” Bucky joked. Steve thought of Sam again and how the man was always checking in on him, or how Nat would always look at him, her eyebrow slightly raised, and he would just know that it was her way of checking if he was okay. But he’d been in charge of Bucky’s health for so long so it wasn’t all that surprising that he’d left behind his own. “Depends,” Steve huffed cryptically, ignoring the disconcerted look Bucky threw his way.

Bucky continued to meander about, switching between looking out the window and sitting on the sofa next to Steve. Bucky, Steve thought, was probably used to filling his time with talking. To Steve, probably, but Steve really wasn’t in the talking mood. Bucky sat down again, his legs fidgeting agitatedly. “Why are you so annoyed to be here?” Bucky asked abruptly. Steve looked at him carefully, examining him from top to bottom, everything from his slicked back hair to the scratchy socks on his feet (Bucky would never wear shoes in the apartment; it would only wear them down, he’d always say). “You said you were from 2018, right?” Bucky continued, trying to scrape anything from Steve’s stubborn silence. “So you’re old. Isn’t it, you know, nice to be young again? Lotta people didn’t think you’d make it to 20, never mind 100. Woah,” Bucky breathed suddenly, like it had only just dawned on him, “you’re 100. I don’t know anyone who’s a hundred.” Bucky grinned like a mad-man, like the thought and just brought such a rush of delight to his usually mundane day. “That’s like…super old! But amazing all the same. You must be wise. Then again, actually, Mr Higgins is old and he ain’t wise but then maybe that just, I don’t know, Mr Higgins,” Bucky rambled, a slow smiling spreading over his chapped lips.

Steve’s heart almost broke at the sight. He hadn’t seen Bucky like this since…well, the forties. So hopefully, full of youth and light and joy at some of the smallest thing. Bucky very much pushed himself into the stereotype the forties pressed on him (stoic, masculine, gentlemanly) but when it was just the two of them, Steve could see this side of Bucky as clear as day. The Bucky that would joke and laugh and throw smart-ass comments at the Steve just to see a smile on his face. The Bucky that forced back tears when something little started too get on his nerves. The Bucky that would do anything to protect Steve. The Bucky that would go on double dates just to let someone, anyone, see the best in Steve. (Bucky loved him, that much Steve knew, but Bucky loved women too, as did Steve, so they had a little freedom from and with each other.)

His Bucky, the modern Bucky, would never smile like that. Not even at him. His Bucky would not laugh like this Bucky did. Bucky would not force back tears like him. Bucky would not joke like him, would not tease like him, would not take anyone on a double date for fear of rejection. Not that his Bucky was worse in anyway…just different and it sent Steve’s heart pounding with unsorted grief.

“I’m not old in the way you think I am,” Steve sighed, leaning back on the sofa, hearing the familiar creak of the sofa (and ignoring the one’s of his bones) that he’d so missed when he’d woken up from the ice. “This body,” he spat, staring down at is like a stain, “is a lot more fragile than what I’m used to.”

Bucky frowned before lighting up again, eye wide with shock. “Di’ they find a way to heal you? You healthy in the future?”

Steve choked on his own self-deprecating laugh. “Yeah, Buck, they healed me. Experimental treatment. I was the only successful patient.”

“So it was dangerous?! Why would you-“

“You’ll understand soon.”

“So I- I see ya all healthy and stuff?”

Steve nodded, sighing. “That’s why I have to get back to future. I remember what happened to me but I’m not the one who’s about to do it. You need your Steve back for that. A lot is gonna happen in the next few years but soon stuff will start happening around here and I can’t be here for it.” He failed to mention that that was not even close to his motive. It was true, anyway, and that would have to be enough. Steve wasn’t a liar. But, he knew that telling Bucky that he was also in the future and was the person that Steve was running back for would only end in confusion and questions. He’d had enough of them already. And, even if he wasn’t, he didn’t think he could explain it anyway.

“But, ain’t you still old in the future? Don’t you want to stay here…with me?” Steve ignored the hurt confusion in Bucky’s voice and bulldozed through this. He didn’t want to acknowledge that Bucky thought that Steve didn’t love him anymore, that he didn’t want to be back with his first love. Bucky thought Steve had abandoned him. In a way, he had. But he had one aim and he was going to complete it.

“I can’t explain to you what is going to happen, Buck, but I’m not old. Not at all.”

“But you’re _hundred_.”

“And some people would say I’m in my thirties.”

“Wha-“

“Look, I don’t want to have this conversation with you right now. I have to get back to the future and I need to figure out how.”

Bucky stared at Steve for a long few seconds before forcing his emotions between a stoic mask and nodding (fuck, he only did that when he was annoyed). “Okay then. If you’re going to figure out a way to get back, I’m gonna help ya.” Steve didn’t hold back the slight smile that peeled the edges of his lips, leaving him with a small, gentle smile that could at least pass as the thin rope tying together their friendship.

“Thanks, Buck. You’ll be glad to have the proper me back. I’m not the same as I used to be and I don’t think I’m that much fun to be around,” Steve admitted easily; his lack of self-worth outside of his costume had translated into fact rather than opinion. He didn’t care that much anymore. He had his Bucky to help him through the darkness that was Steve Rogers and not Captain America. He didn’t need to be fun. His stoic mask, his Captain America mask, had become a part of him now. That was fine.

“Oh, you never are,” Bucky joked. Steve lifted an amused eyebrow but said no more as he shook his head and focused, ignoring Bucky’s sigh of disappointment at another interaction falling flat.

“Okay, I need to figure out why I’m here,” Steve sighed, rubbing a hand tiredly down his face. “God, I haven’t got a single lead.”

“Well,” Bucky supplemented, “what happened just before you were with me in the motel.”

“Um…” Steve paused for a moment, mulling it over, “I was with someone. In bed…I…I told him I loved him and then…everything went black.” Cautiously, Steve glanced to the side, inspecting Bucky’s micro-expressions, spotting the downtrodden frown on his face. It was small but there, Steve could read any Bucky like clockwork by now. “Is that why you really want to get back? You want to go back to this man?” Steve hesitated a moment before nodding. Bucky did something similar himself, nodding like it was just as he was expecting. “Guess it couldn’t be us forever,” he sighed, a false smile playing at his lips. Steve tried to interrupt, to tell him that he’d never move on but he caught his tongue before he could blurt out something stupid. Bucky shouldn’t know, it would only be dangerous for the future.

“Well, anyway,” Steve started, unsure of where he was going, before latching onto the most prominent thought on his mind. “I want to know why I don’t remember this. Shouldn’t there be some recollection now of either being in the future or what I do here? Something. Both.” Bucky looked brooding for a moment before bringing his legs up onto the sofa to cross them and turning to Steve with a musing look on his face. “What do you think you were doing over the next few months?”

“What’s the date?”

“March…somethin’ 1939. Didn’ focus on the paper. A lotta’s been goin’ on.” Steve nodded sadly, feeling just a little bad for putting Bucky through this, especially when he had so little time left before he became…well…not him. But, nothing could change that now and Steve had a goal in mind.

“Okay. So…spring of 1939 I…was ill? I think. Has your birthday passed?”

“Yeah. Think it’s nearly April.”

“Yeah, yeah, I was ill. For months. Couldn’t tell what it was.” Bucky stared down at his lap for a moment before he brought his head up, a little twinkle in his eye. “What if,” already, he was gesticulating with his hands like an excited child, “someone transported you here but in order to, you know, make sure that time didn’t go haywire, they fiddled with your memories and they made it so you don’t remember switching.”

“Sounds like a pulp novel,” Steve sighed. “But,” he added when Bucky went to interject, “that’s a lotta my life now so it’s not unbelievable. But why would they do that if I was just gonna forget.”

“Well we’re thinking this a swap, right? My Steve went to the future?” Steve nodded, feeling the festering lie lay guiltily in his stomach. “Then that makes sense. My Steve ain’t gonna know crap about your life and if someone wanted to, I don’t know - you said you were part of a medical experiment, maybe they wanted your blood but my Steve doesn’t know that so he would just give it to them if they managed to trick him into it. Pretend they were doctors or somethin’.”

Steve panicked for a moment, thinking of the vulnerability of his former self in the future. His lungs constricted, his chest heaved for a moment before- “no. It wouldn’t work. My…my man, in the future, he’d protect him. With his life.”

“Would he really be able to, though?”

Steve’s eyes flickered to Bucky, blatantly seeing the seething jealousy behind the surface. “He would. He’s strong - stronger than even you can imagine. And if someone attacked me (or your me, anyway) he’d rip them apart.” Steve didn’t mean to say it with such satisfaction but sometimes, grimly, he felt proud that he had someone who would go to such lengths for him. That is until he saw Bucky do it. He would never want to see that again.

He neither wanted to see Bucky turn that way nor did he want to see a body torn apart like that again: limbs torn off, lying in puddles of their own blood. A painting of righteous, if uneducated, anger.

“Uh-“ Bucky evidently wanted to question at least a part of that sentence but Steve was quick to interrupt with his own thoughts. “Your Steve will be fine because we know he gets back. Any consequences of him being in the future will be mine to deal with. And anyway, we already know he forgets so if anything bad happens, it won’t have any lasting effect. As long as he’s alive by the end of it, it’s fine.”

Bucky sighed. “I guess,” he whispered unsurely. It was obvious that he wanted to protect Steve but they both knew that was impossible; nothing could be done now bar swapping their places back. He turned to the broken wristwatch that had been handed down from his father and groaned. “It’s getting late. I gotta’n evening shift down at the docks, I gotta go. You’ll be here when I get back, right?”

“Got no where to go…jerk.”

Bucky smiled weakly as he stuffed his feet into his oversized work boots. “Punk.” Steve breathed out a sigh of relief; if Bucky said that, he at least knew they were on okay terms. And whilst Steve hadn’t said it since 1945, it still didn’t fail to bring a sense of familiarity.

With Bucky gone, Steve had nothing to do but wallow in his pain and illness and boredom and scavenge his mind for some reason as to why he’d blacked out and been sent here. It had been a normal night together with Buck - and Steve had been _happy_ , they’d finally gotten somewhere, Bucky was doing better he was… - and then he was just…gone. He couldn’t remember a moment before then and waking up in his smaller body. He had just…switched. Instantaneously. Without warning. Just…switched.

He groaned, ignoring the painful sensation of his…everywhere, really, and rambled around the house for a while, looking for something (anything) to do. After a couple of minutes of thoughtless wandering, he found himself in the bedroom, faced with the sight of his old sketchbook, open already on a blank page, a little tin holding a few stumps of charcoal laying on top. He drew in a sharp breath, staring down at it like he could see his past right there in front of him, like he could already see the art on page, like he could already see beyond the potential.

He hadn’t seen this in years, decades even, and to have it here. Maybe there were some perks of being back in the past.

Sitting down carefully and laying the sketchbook on his lap was like a dream, filled with wretched nostalgia and peaceful bliss. Ignoring the squawk of the bed springs, he nimbly picked up the charcoal and began to trace lines down from memory. Even if he didn’t draw in the future, even if he’d given up on it once he’d tried it again in the future and found it just didn’t hold the same meaning, he knew this face off by heart and the way to move the pencil was stuck in his muscle memory, especially when stuffed back into this tiny, weak body of his. He ignored the painful gasps when a particularly large bout of smoke passed through the open window and choked him to death, leaving his asthma raging (he’d tried asthma cigarettes but they were just too strong for his lungs; now, his future self knew just what the smoke was doing to his lungs and it was nothing good) and recreated the image from memory until it was put to paper.

Bucky. Oh god, _his_ Bucky. Just a portrait holding his face and shoulders, the webbing of scarring just peeking into the bottom of frame. He stared at it for what could have been an hour, maybe a minute, his mind drifting from one thing to another but always returning to him.

It’s always him.

His stomach trembled at the thought of Bucky being left alone in the future, in charge of taking care of his weakened self in his new, over-large body. Fuck, Bucky wasn’t in a place to be left alone, or a place to look after someone else - Bucky was the priority, he needed-

This was only going to end in disaster.

Steve stared down at the page one more time, melancholy washing over him like the tide, praying that Buck was okay.

*

Steve had to admit to himself by now that he really just wasn’t going to get the hang of this whole ‘modern’ thing. He was shit at it, through and through, and no matter how much this ‘Bucky’ (he wasn’t all that much like Bucky at all but he’d recognise that face anywhere so he’d trust him for now - he had no reason not to yet) led him through it, he was always going to be shit. So, upon throwing away the odd boxy remote thing (which the old Bucky would love but he had no patience for), Bucky agreed to show him around.

Despite the invitation to explore, Steve was hesitant to out. His body now felt out of place. He had a strength he couldn’t explain; one that must have been borne from his recovery but still felt so weird thrumming through his veins. His footsteps were too loud and his breaths too light. And whilst he could hide his discomfort, he hated to let it fester in his stomach. Without anyone to vent his anger on, he was left stumbling through the awkwardness of his naked emotions. His usual stubbornness was shrouded by embarrassment. But, after a strange look from Bucky, he held his chin up high and showed his best side. It wouldn’t be fair to put his discomfort onto Bucky, especially now that he looked like he had a lot of problems of his own.

“If you see anyone around the compound, act like your friends unless they actively ignore you. Most the staff won’t pay attention to you,” Bucky said in that dead voice of his whilst Steve just awed over the fact that they had _staff_. They were ambling down the winding corridors, ones that Steve could not follow yet a perfect memory of (being healthy sure was strange). Bucky continued speaking, ignoring Steve’s expression, following his logic through like it was a debrief. “The man with a very specific goatee, that’s Tony. You argue a lot, call him out on his bullshit. Sam’s your best friend but I don’t think he’s around at the moment which is good because he’ll notice. Man who has a few bandages is Clint, he’s a spy, be politely nice to him and laugh at his jokes. He likes that. Bruce is quiet so be quiet back, the less you say the less noticeable it is. You’re still you but you’ve changed over the years-“

“You said stuff happened to you to be young but why am I still young?” Steve interrupted, his whole body vacant from Bucky’s words. He wasn’t in the head space to listen. If he was honest, this was getting a little overwhelming. The technology, the body, this Bucky; if he were honest, he’d admit that he was going half crazy.

“It’s just as long a story,” Bucky dismissed and continued with his debrief. “Thor isn’t around but he’s an alien. Just be happy around him. He has that effect on people anyway. He’s trustworthy, though. You’ll notice him, he’s the biggest of us. Apart from Bruce’s counterpart. He turns into the Hulk, a green giant. But you won’t see that, hopefully. Natasha, the red-head, will notice immediately that something’s wrong so just do your good old thing of being stubborn and you’ll wear her down. She’s a spy too, although much better than Clint. The only other woman that lives here, there’s more on the staff, is Wanda. Long, brown hair. Creepy,” Bucky shuddered in a way oddly reminiscent of his past counterpart, “she’s a witch. She’s new, she won’t notice something’s wrong unless she touches you then she can see in your mind and then she’ll definitely know something’s wrong. Be scared of her, you’re right to be.” No one quite knew what Bucky had against Wanda but it was obvious to him, as much as holding a gun: she was powerful, in a way that he could not beat. The rest of them, he had a chance. With her, he did not. Even Vision may give him mercy. She could snap him in half with a click of her fingers and if he deserved it, she’d do it with no regret. And she was also just creepy, she made Bucky shudder, there was just something off about her but Steve would deny that so he kept that to himself. Steve quite liked her. “And then there’s Vision. He’s a robot. Don’t worry about him. Even if he notices something it wrong, something tells me he’ll bring that up with me and won’t bring it out to everyone. He’ll help. The rest will just want to run…experiments.”

“You sound like you know that from…experience,” Steve tried cautiously.

“I do,” was Bucky’s simple answer as they travelled through the maze of corridors until they were lead to a large common area with an overhanging balcony and a bar across one side.

“This is the common area. Mostly used for parties and-“ Bucky paused, listening careful. “Tony’s coming.” Before Steve could even question how Bucky could hear who it was, Tony (the man, as described, with the very specific goatee) strolled in, smirk planted easily on his face. Just as he’d entered the room, he shouted “Terminator, my least favourite person! And Steve, despite everything, still my favourite. How lovely it is to see you today.” Bucky scowled but said nothing, Steve attempted a “hi…Tony,” and in just a second, it became clear that this plan was going to go to shit. Whilst Bucky was a master spy, Steve was not (this Steve, at least; even the new Steve had stealth training and a lifetime of acting in his favour) and it became evident the moment he opened his mouth. Looking at Steve like he was an alien, Tony squinted his eyes but shrugged. “Hi…Steve,” he mocked, pausing for an obnoxiously long time. “It’s nice to know after all these years, you still struggle with my name.” Steve tried to shrug the humour of with a smile but landed a mile off with a pained grimace. Tony raised a single eyebrow and suggested “go to a therapist, Rogers, you need to sort that out. We can’t have our favourite super-soldier going funny on us, the other one’s a bastard.” He was staring directly at Bucky, who looked as unfazed as always. Body tense, Tony left (fled) the room.

“You’re an awful actor,” Bucky deadpanned, looking bored. Steve shrugged “don’t do much acting.” Each of them staring off into the distance, the silence grew more awkward with each passing second. In the meanwhile, Steve tried again to scrape any sort of answers out of Bucky. “Why doesn’t Tony like you?”

Bucky looked down at Steve like he was assessing him before he shrugged. “I killed his parents.” To anyone who knew Barnes, they would know he was testing Steve, to see if he would jump to conclusions or find an answer. It was often how Bucky split enemy from friend. To others, it would seem like a blunt statement, an ugly one at that.

Steve’s head snapped upwards, staring dead into Bucky’s eyes like he was trying to find his own answers. “Did you really?”

“Yes.”

Steve paused. “I don’t believe you’re a murderer.” He couldn’t be, this was Bucky. _Bucky_. Bucky wouldn’t kill people. Would he?

“I am, though.”

“I think there’s more to this story,” Steve argued defiantly and for the first time, something had shifted between the two of them. “You’re right,” Bucky said, the faintest of smiles on his lips, “there is more.”

“See, I’m always right,” Steve jokes sarcastically.

“That you are,” Bucky said with a chuckle, enjoying the way Steve’s entire face lit up. He hadn’t seen Steve smile like that in…god knows how long. Well, Bucky’s happy to finally see it. He’s glad to see Steve not weighed down by Bucky’s shit, wading blindly through the sewers in hopes of some light. This was who Steve was meant to be. “Glad you don’t think the worst of me…punk,” Bucky added just to see Steve’s teeth peek out of his grin. “Jerk,” he replied automatically, warming Bucky’s heart in a thousand different ways.

“Come on,” Bucky sighed, “lets hide you away for a bit longer. You’re gonna need to training.”

“What…what kind of training?” Steve asked tentatively.

“Just a little acting. It’s essential for any spy,” Bucky replied with a smirk, not ignoring the excited flutter that passes over Steve’s features. Although he’d claim Bucky was the lover of sci-fi, and he was, Steve was just as interested and often, he’d latch-on to the stories that focused on intergalactic super-spies just as much as he would the barreling space soldiers that barraged through each and every one of their enemies. Bucky would like to think that it fit them perfectly.

They were back in their room by midday, having shown Steve a few more key rooms just for practicalities sake (kitchen, gym - well, that wasn’t necessary but Steve looked excited at the prospect - and so on) - Steve had a moment to realise that it meant that he’d be staying here for longer than he wanted to do but didn’t have time to dwell on it, Bucky was a fast-paced person. They spent the next two hours trying a bit of acting practice - which monumentally failed but pushed Steve at least up into the ‘bad’ category rather than the ‘worst’ category - before moving onto technology, which Steve was now getting a basic grasp of, though it took hours rather than the minutes it should have and Steve still could not control many of the simple items.

It was four o’clock when the notification came, via Jarvis, that Tony had decided tonight of all nights was the one to have a team-dinner. Of course, Bucky was not so oblivious to believe that this was fate; Tony had planned this either out of anxiety or fear, neither of which were good considering Tony’s past. Steve, on the other hand, didn’t have a single thought as to why this was occurring - this could be a daily thing for all he knew - but he was overwhelming terrified at the thought of having to see the group all at once. Although he had the chance that he could blend into the background, he knew with his lack of control over this clunky body that that was never going to happen. But, Bucky said they couldn’t back out (“fucking Stark being clever with that dumb as shit brain a’ his”) and that left Steve to freak the fuck out over the next hour.

“What happens at these dinners? Do I have to talk to them? God, I don’t know how people act around friends-“

“You had m-“

“That was different! You were my best friend. I have no idea what I’m doing. I’m going to do everything wrong! They’re gonna notice my accent.” Bucky had said earlier that Steve had lost a lot of his accent, a fact that upset him but in the face of the rest of it, was very easy to overcome.

“It’s fi-“

“It’s not fine! This is important. You said they’d run _experiments_ on me. Don’t know what kinda friends I have here in the future but they don’t seem all tha’ good.”

“Steve-“ Bucky tried.

“Like what kinda friends-“

“Steve!” He repeated as Steve continued to ramble, clamping Steve down by his shoulders. “Just don’t say too much and eat. You have down days sometimes. It’s fine if you don’t speak.”

“Bu-“

“No. No buts. We’re going and you’re going to have to be calm for this to work.”

“Okay.”

“You alright?”

“Yeah, think so.” Steve most definitely wasn’t but he wasn’t about to say that aloud. Especially not to this Bucky - tall, menacing, and even a little creepy. But, Steve had lived his whole life in defiance of what people expected of him so he was going to do this and he was going to do it well.

And it started well. Well, as good as it could.

“Steven!” Thor boomed as they entered the hall. He was alone, the first there, whilst they were the second, slowly circling the table until someone came to join him. Thor was a social creature, he didn’t want to sit alone. Especially as it could be often deemed as weak on a planet like Asgard where strength and camaraderie was foremost. “Hi Thor,” Steve said, smiling weakly.

“Are you okay today, shield brother? You look sad.”

“I don’t-“ Steve began to argue, defiance raging through him.

Thor bellowed a laugh. “There my Steven is. Good to see you back, you were looking timid for a second there.” Steve huffed an unamused laugh but apparently it was in-character enough that Thor only ignored him, laying a singular hand on Bucky’s shoulder and whispering something gently to him. Steve did not think that man who just screamed in his ear would be capable of it but he was deadly quiet. Bucky whispered something just as quiet back as Tony strolled in the room. “Well look who showed up. Glad to see my two super-soldiers are here to enjoy the festivities.” Steve rolled his eyes. “Oh look who’s back to his usual self. Glad to know you’re not possessed.” Although, in a way he was, Steve didn’t mention anything, just glad that he hadn’t changed _that_ much in the last century. Maybe just playing this like himself would work a charm. Though, it was still stuck in his mind as to why he was friends with these people. They were all a bit…weird, and that’s saying something when himself had always been the outcast. Not to mention the fact that he was in the same room as a literal God: Steve really hadn’t wrapped his head around that one yet. He was sure to faint when he did. For now, it just didn’t seem real.

Barton was next in, already munching on a chocolate bar, which Steve was utterly in love with already. “Wow, Steve, if your gonna make out with my chocolate bar, back off, it’s mine,” Barton joked, holding his chocolate protectively in his hand whilst Bucky pinched Steve to get his mind out of the fairyland and focused back on the steady stream of food going onto the table. It started like a fairly decent meal, and then it grew, and then it grew again, and Steve knew this was food for a lotta people but this was insane. Well, scrap that, this whole thing was insane. He could see the whole of Manhattan from his window but he hadn’t really addressed that either. (Steve wasn’t very good at addressing things. Suppression was the key to his life).

Steve continued on his self-proclaimed silence, drifting somewhere between dreams and reality, as Bruce and Wanda came in together, their heads bowed together as they discussed something, eyebrows furrowed. Although, as soon as Wanda looked up, she just about brought a smile to her face and took her place, picking a few things from the plates in the centre of the table as she waited for the stragglers to come in. Vision drifted in, nodding at the group before choosing the seat next to Wanda, looking curiously at Steve, leaving only Natasha to come in. Bucky bowed his his back and leant into Steve’s ear as he slouched. “Remember, Natasha will be the hardest to trick. You’re gonna have to play this well.” Before she even came in, Steve heard her footsteps (it was very strange not being even partially deaf anymore. Everything could be heard so _clearly_. Even more clearly than a normal human but he wouldn’t notice that yet). “So,” she stated as soon as she walked in, “what’s wrong with Steve?” Steve’s head darted to Tony, eyes wide with shock as Bucky silently groaned beneath him. This plan had already gone to shit.

“N-nothing!” Steve stammered. “I’m fine.” Natasha raised a fine eyebrow at him and Bucky clenched his fists. Then, with a barely perceptible movement, she narrowed her eyes and approached him. “No, you’re not,” she stated clearly, staring him down.

“I’m fine,” he squeaked, withering away from her. He’d never been very good with dames. And this was a scary, scary dame.

“No,” she corrected, “you’re not. You’re scared of me. Why?”

“I’m not! I’m not. It’s you and me, Nat. Best friends?” That was the last straw. Her hand was around his throat, dragging him up to his feet despite his new weight. “You’re not Steve,” she spat, still holding him by his neck, even if her small hands barely covered it.

“Let him go,” Bucky growled, standing himself, trying to impose himself over Natasha but she looked unfazed.

“Leave it be, James. This isn’t Steve. Who are you?”

“I…I really am Steve,” he choked out, “I’m just…I’m just…” What was he supposed to say? He didn’t want to be experimented on. Because that was what Bucky had said, wasn’t it? He trusted Bucky. It must be true. He really didn’t want to be experimented on.

“Let. Him. Go,” Bucky growled louder, hair hanging in his face, shadowing the contours of his face and leaving him like a ghost-like silhouette. Natasha just tightened her hold on his neck, pushing him back against the table.

And that’s where everything went to shit.

Bucky grabbed Natasha by the back of her top and flung her against the wall. She landed with a resounding thud and a scream but Bucky was already too pent up to care. Copying her earlier actions, he prowled towards her and picked her up by her neck, effectively choking her as she dangled in the air, back pressed flush against the wall. “I said, don’t touch him.”

“It’s not Steve. Don’t let yourself be tricked again like this, James.” Bucky faltered for just a second before he squeezed harder.

“Don’t manipulate my weaknesses. It won’t work,” he spat. She struggled further in his hold, acknowledging her weaker position, mentally and physically. But she did have one thing on her side, teammates.

Tony raised a repulser as Bruce fled, leaving Wanda curling her fingers carefully around the glowing red orb of her magic as Vision stared pointedly at Barnes. Thor looked ready to fight at a moments notice, wanting to follow his teammates actions even if it was against one of their own. Barton raised a bow from nowhere and aimed it straight at Barnes’ head. Steve, still choking for air, just stared at the chaos in sick fascination and watched as Bucky’s eyes went from grey to black. In a second, Natasha’s head was thrown backwards against the wall, causing a sickening crack to reverberate around the room. She’d survive…probably. He hoped. He couldn’t care about that right now. Bucky had turned, teeth bared as he fell to his feet and slid under the table, the most tactically safe place. Steve stared down at him, right next to his feet, trembling. “I will kill them if they hurt you,” he whispered gravely and before Steve even had the opportunity to speak, he was going for Wanda.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Whilst the Winter Soldier continues to attack his teammates, the future Steve - stuck in the past - is finally suffering the consequences of living there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoop! Actually got this out by Sunday. School is starting to attack me again with work so I wasn't sure this was going to be out in time. It was all a bit last minute. But, I did manage to write it and I gave it a quick edit but I'm still not sure whether I'm 100% happy with it. Either way, it's not up to me. I hope you guys enjoy and thank you all so much for the kudos and comments, any more are hugely appreciated :)

Bucky’s metal arm landed with a resounding clang. Wanda had dodged, leaving Bucky’s arm in a direct path for the metal wall, but it was too late to stop the strike. The sickening sound pushed Steve further into hiding, his breath picking up uncontrollably, like he could feel his asthma clutching at his lungs, even if he knew, in this body, he would never suffer a bout of death-mongering asthma again. Bucky, ignoring his fist in the wall, twisted artfully to the side and swiped Wanda’s legs from her, just before she could capture him in a tangled web of red. Vision’s eyes had shifted, wide with shock as he watched Wanda fall to the floor, breaking his intent focus on Steve. Whilst Tony tried to follow the action with his repulser but he couldn’t find a safe shot that would harm Bucky whilst leaving Wanda unharmed, leaving it to Barton to make the hit. Pulling his bow back taut, Barton aimed at Bucky’s flesh arm, aiming for disarmament, letting the string go with a quiet ping. But Bucky had eyes on the back of his head. As Wanda flew to the floor, Bucky turned, caught the arrow and went to drive it through Wanda when it finally just-

“STOP!” Steve screamed over the din of the fight. “Bucky, stop.” With an arrow only a little above Wanda’s leg, Bucky paused, looking up to Steve in confusion. “Stop fighting, please,” Steve begged. “I can explain.” Vision’s gaze was back on him with a robotic like focus. “And I think you might be able to as well,” Steve said, motioning to Vision. The man, or robot, nodded slowly, taking in the situation before affirming. “Steve is correct. I can explain. The fighting should not continue.”

“Don’t tell them-“ Bucky tried to warn but Vision was quick to interrupt.

“Sergeant Barnes, I understand your fear but nothing will happen to him if the group knows.”

“I don’t want to be experimented on,” Steve interrupted, trying to suppress his temper. “Bucky…he said you would want to experiment on me,” Steve added weakly, the glint of defiance still flaming in his eye.

Tony’s head shot up, staring at Bucky in disbelief. “You told him that?! You thought we would _experiment_ on him?! This is Steve! Why would-“

“You will want to run tests,” Bucky reasoned, picking himself off the floor.

“That is not being experimented on! That is helping!”

“Please can we continue the explanation before you two continue your fight? There is a lot to discuss. I have analysed Steve’s patterns and I can confirm that this is in fact, Steve. However, there are certain characteristics that vary that have led me to believe that this Steve must be from a different time. After looking more closely, I have deduced that he must be from the past. He is uncomfortable in this body and that would only come from transferring from a different one, a smaller one.”

“Before this, for me, it was 1939,” Steve took over, thanking Vision with a nod (mostly for remaining calm and at least alleviating some of the tensions in the room: at this point, Wanda was finally standing and Natasha was peeling herself carefully off the floor, Barton at her side). “I think…I don’t know…that I may have swapped with your Steve. He’s in the past, I’m in the future. Bucky’s been helping me out but he…he doesn’t want you guys to experiment on me.”

“I still don’t believe he-“

“Tony. You and Barnes can continue your petty fighting at a later date. For now, we have to figure out how to get our Steve back and how to get you,” Vision said, looking at Steve, “back.”

“If I may interrupt,” Thor asked, setting Mjolnir on the table (a sign of peace) “how did you get here? Is there a reason for your journey?”

Steve shrugged. “I honestly don’t know. I was asleep and then I just…woke up here. Bucky was there and he looked so…different, and I just figured that something had happened. Apparently, time travel. Shoulda guessed as soon as I saw Buck.” Steve collected a multitude of pitying looks from those who were apparently his teammates. Apparently, this was worth pity. But, Steve was always a stubborn punk. He wouldn’t take other people’s pity. Just because was always a little behind, didn’t mean he needed help. He could do just fine all by himself. “Stop staring like that at me!” He snapped. “I don’t need your pity. I’m doing just fine. This future thing, it’s easy.” Because it’s him, though, as Steve said it, he hit his hip against the table, shouting out as he clutched his side, swearing under his breath.

“I get what you mean Barnes,” Natasha grunted, letting Barton haul her to his feet. “He really is nowhere near as stubborn as he used to be.” Bucky just shrugged, still not bothered about the fact that he had literally just smashed the woman against the wall. For all Steve knew, that was a normal occurrence. “I’m not stubborn!”

Natasha ignored him. “And don’t take that as me believing you. Time travel, from what we know, isn’t possible, especially without reason or magic. So, that brings the question, is this Steve really who he says he is?”

“Hey!”

“He is, Natalia,” Bucky reasoned. “How would someone be able to mimic someone he isn’t anymore so well. He isn’t in the history books, he certainly ain’t anyone our old neighbours would have blathered about apart from to say that he was about to keel over and die.”

“HEY!”

“There are plenty of ways to get information.”

“You don’t trust him, that’s fine, but you can’t persecute him. He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“You can’t see past the face, James, you never could.”

“Natalia, that was different.”

Calmly, she raised an eyebrow but behind her eyes was the fire that wished to rage. “Is it?”

Bucky was about to step forward again when Tony interrupted. “Look, Terminator, we know you and Spider girl have problems that run _way_ back but now’s not the time. Steve, Bruce and I will have to run tests. Promise they’re not experiments, just a few scans. Only to help.” Bucky’s glare was redirected at Tony. “You can even watch, tin-man! We won’t do a thing to your precious Steve.”

“He might not be-“ Natasha tried but Steve talked directly over her, unafraid with Bucky by his side: it was just like the school bullies all over again. “If you don’t believe me then I’m just gonna to leave. You comin’, Buck?” The man nodded and silently came to his side, more like a faithful (attack) dog than the confident Bucky he was used to but it would do. If anything, he felt stronger for it. “And Tony, I’ll do the tests if Bucky can be there. And if you do anything out of the ordinary, I’m leaving.”

Tony just smiled. “Nice to see our Captain back.” Steve just nodded and strode off, Bucky tailing behind him.

It only took a minute or two to find them back in their apartment, Steve staring blankly at the horizon as Bucky watched him from behind. New York had changed a lot. Lights gleamed brighter, more colourfully but even less stars could be seen in the sky. The old smog clouds that used to hang had lifted but left ugly skyscrapers and impersonal buildings. Bucky had changed too, Steve thought. Just like New York, he seemed brighter. Not in the way you would think but rather, he held himself with more poise, like he truly knew who he was and understood that. But with that, the gleam in his eye - like the stars - were shrouded by blank darkness, a sadness that could never be lifted. Whatever had happened to him-

“Why am I friends with them?” Steve asked suddenly, pushing himself from his thoughts. “It’s not like I need friends. I did just fine by myself, and with you of course. So why would I choose a group like…this?”

“It wasn’t really a choice,” Bucky revealed, against all better judgement. He would just have to hold out the hope that Steve was going back to the past without any knowledge of the future. If Steve remembered and the timeline changed…well. He’d gone through enough. He’d finally got the opportunity to come home again, he wasn’t willing to let that go on chance. Even if that chance would benefit him. Even if it meant Hydra never had him. Because at least, in some twisted fate, Hydra had led him here, with Steve, with friends (no matter how odd or how distant) and not to a premature death where Steve would have had to live on without him anyway.

“So I don’t even want to be friends with them. Great!” Steve threw his arms up in the air in a small tantrum and paced back and forth, his footsteps leaving too loud thuds on the floor. As he paced faster, his anger grew stronger. The frustration of this all - the fight, the future, the friends - was drowning him in its choppy waves and he was left struggling for breath. “Argh!” Steve screamed, lashing out at the wall with a clenched fist. He expected the hit to hurt but was left numb as his fist-

Went through the wall. “Bucky…” Steve whispered, staring at his hand in awe. “What…”

“I know I said you were healed,” Bucky revealed, “but there may have been a little more to that.” Bucky was taking a chance; here he was, letting the chance that the timelines altered all because he could never look Steve in the eye and lie, not when he was already so lost, scrambling for purchase in this unknown world. Bucky wondered how the hell Steve did it alone the first time. Or the second time, he guessed. But Bucky had had time against him before and he could savour what he had whilst he had it. If everything was destroyed because of him, it wouldn’t be the first time. He’d survive it anyway, he always seemed to survive (even if he was sick of it).

“Oh my god. I have- I have _superpowers_. That’s why I can hear so well, isn’t it? And see so far. It’s not just-“

“Yeah,” Bucky breathed. “You’re a real life superhero, Steve,” he said with a small smile.

“Oh, my, god. We’re superheroes. Is that why I’m friends with these people? Because they’re like me?”

“Yes. That’s why the fight was so bad too. They’re trained for that. Natasha doesn’t mean harm but it’s the only way she knows to calm a conflict she can’t control-“

“It’s fine. I get it.” In all honesty, Steve was still confused but he would have to get over that if he was going to survive this. And he’d have to win Natasha’s trust, no matter how much he didn’t want to. They should at least be civil. Who knows, maybe she wasn’t like all those other bullies. Maybe she was capable of learning kindness.

“Look, I’m sorry about that fight, Steve-“

“It’s fine.” He paused for a moment before adding, “I could have done it myself but it’s not bad to have someone by my side.” It was the closest Steve would ever come to saying thank you so Bucky would take it for what it was.

“Well, you keep telling me I’m a superhero nowadays so I guess I have to protect someone.” Steve burst out laughing when a grin fell onto Bucky’s face. It almost looked unnatural now but it was so painstakingly familiar that Steve couldn’t help but laugh. Bucky, no matter what, was his constant. If Bucky was here, he’d never be lost. So, for this to work, he’d just have to trust that Bucky could protect him. Because Steve sure as hell couldn’t protect himself. Even if he’d never admit to that.

*

Being cooped up wasn’t all that people made it out to be. Over the time that Bucky had been at work, Steve had already used up most of his entertainment possibilities and was left staring blankly at the wall. The portrait of Bucky had been put to one side, lying in the exposed sunlight, emanating as close to Steve could get at being with his Bucky. The rest of his evening had been comprised of coughing, wheezing, a bad attempt at reading and the realisation that the modern world really had shortened his attention span. He used to be able to sit for hours without particularly doing anything, just happy for the spare time he had, and bar the frustration with his illnesses preventing him from going out, he didn’t mind _choosing_ not to go out. But now, locked inside this apartment like a bird in its cage, he couldn’t help but feel empty, vacantly staring at Bucky. But the more he stared, the more his eyes caught on Bucky’s, the more he felt the hole in his heart fill with grief and loss and longing, so much so that he missed when the current Bucky walked through the door, looking tired in the moonlight (when had the sun gone out?). His muscles must have been aching by now; the shifts down at the docks weren’t pleasant but they were better paying that most manual labour jobs. Bucky was lucky to have it. Didn’t mean it didn’t hurt, though and Bucky was left exhausted as he shut the door behind him.

“Hey, Steve,” he muttered quietly, pressing a kiss to the side of Steve’s head, only to realise what he’d done when Steve recoiled (out of surprise not disgust but it was easy to misinterpret). “Oh shit, sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“No, no! It’s fine. It is-“

“No, it’s not. You got a new fella now and-“ Bucky’s eyes caught on the picture in front of Steve, examining it carefully before he chose his words. “Is that?…”

“Yeah,” Steve breathed, staring at the painting with sad eyes and downturned lips.

“But I don’t have-“

“That hair. Those scars. That look. I know you don’t. It’s not based off you.”

“But he’s got my face,” Bucky argued, stepping forward, forgetting the previous incident in favour of tracing the lines with his finger. “Exactly. Those are the details of my face but everything else is-“

“Different. I know.” Steve fucking _knew_.

“Then who…”

“My fella, in the future. That’s him.”

“But…but that’s me.”

“It is.”

“But it ain’t me.”

“Because it isn’t.”

“Am I? Am I in the future with you? Is that why I look different? Is that what I look like in the future?”

“Yeah, Buck. It’s you. I’m still with you.” Steve stared carefully at his feet. “Until the end of the line,” he choked out, blinking back tears. Bucky was gaping at the picture, tracing the scarring with his fingers. “But, but how-“

“I can’t tell you that. I can’t let you know what’s going to happen. I can’t let you change it. If you change it and he ain’t there any more when I get back then-“ Steve started to panic, his words beginning to blur together, his mind racing at a million miles an hour.

“Hey, how hard can it be? You’re in the future. Didn’t I get there the same way as you? You don’t have to tell me everything because I know that time will go all wrong if you do but don’t I have the right to know a little bit like you said a medical experiment healed you, was it similar for me or-“

“Bucky, stop. I can’t tell you.”

“Why not?! You told me what happened to you,” Bucky argued, his voice taking an irritated edge. He’d been at the docks too long, his muscles were aching and the shock of being in the future was all settling in at once, pushing things out of the way leaving them to bared to the light.

“I didn’t tell you everything. And if I tell you anything, you’ll just change what happens-“

“Why can’t you just tell me?!”

“WHY CAN’T YOU JUST LISTEN TO ME!” Steve snapped, heaving. “Why. Can’t. You just. Listen. I can’t tell you. The one thing I have left in my life in the future is him. Is you! And if I tell you and he’s not there, I’m better off being dead. AGAIN!”

“You…you died?” Bucky choked out. Steve just huffed a patronising laugh. “Yeah, Buck, there you go. Is that enough information for you? I’m going to bed,” he hissed, trudging off the single bedroom they shared, hoping to all hell that Bucky would just sleep on the sofa or something. It was uncomfortable as hell but Bucky deserved it.

*

Steve woke up to the knowledge that Bucky hadn’t in fact done what he’d hoped and slept outside but had rather curled up behind him, arm around Steve’s waist, breath on his neck. Much to his annoyance, as soon as Steve attempted to shift out from under him, Bucky was awake. “Steve wait-“ Bucky said softly.

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“No,” Bucky replied sternly. “I’m not ready for your stubbornness right now, Rogers. We need to talk. And…and I need to apologise.” Steve frowned, turning over to face Bucky, looking up at him carefully, analysing the small patterns of his face, trying to detect insincerity. And god, did he wish he could afford some glasses. “Don’t look so surprised, Stevie. Look, I’m sorry. I overreacted. I know it’s not an excuse but it had been a long day and seeing that picture of me, I don’t know. It surprised me. Knowing that I’m in the future with you is great, it really is but I’m just a little scared about how I get there.”

“I really can’t tell you, Buck.”

Bucky pressed his forehead against Steve, talking only as loud as Steve needed to be able to hear it. “I know, Steve. I accept that. I really do. It’s just a lot to take in, that’s all. Lotta emotions out there.”

“Oh don’t you pretend to have emotions on me now,” Steve joked, smiling and looking up at Bucky through thick eyelashes.

“You’re a punk.”

“Jerk.”

With that, Bucky rolled out of bed, feeling slightly better for letting things off his chest as he rummaged through the two singular items in the ice box (a slice of ham that a neighbour had given them and an almost empty pitcher of milk). Well, ham would have to do. Bucky would eat later. They had a few pieces of half moulding fruit and a few slices of bread left but Bucky would save that for Steve’s dinner. In the meanwhile, Bucky would scavenge for something he could eat. Steve’s health was paramount and Bucky wasn’t about to not go about sacrificing his meals for it. Steve, though, when served didn’t look all too happy about his plate. Then again, Steve had never looked _happy_ at his meals but he had at least been grateful.

“Something wrong?” Bucky asked, looking at Steve picked up the lone piece of ham in his fingers and stared down at it with somewhere between disbelief and disappointment in his eyes.

“Um, no, this is great, Buck. Getting ham is pretty impressive, you know. I just-“ Steve stopped, leaving a large gap that Bucky had no way of filling. As the silence stretched on too long, Bucky finally spoke up. “Come on, just what?”

“I…I’m used to bigger meals. After the medicine, I needed a lot more food to run. And in the future, well, I got quite a lotta money. I eat well.” Bucky frowned, split between anger and disappointment - he didn’t want to disappoint Steve but they didn’t have the money for more, Steve knew that and to throw it in Bucky’s face was downright… “Look, I’m sorry, Buck. I know how it is now. I’m just gonna have to get back to his diet alright? I need to shed a few pounds to keep this delicious figure anyway.” Bucky laughed but it was false beyond the smile. Bucky didn’t know whether to be happy that Steve had the money to be well fed in the future or the guilt that Bucky can’t give that to him now. “Don’t do that, Buck,” Steve said, interrupting Bucky’s musings. “This is great. Seriously, ham? I’m delighted. I was expecting some more chicken rations in a watery soup - and no, that’s nothing against your cooking, it’s the best we can do - and I got this. This is a feast.”

“You’re not really helping here, Steve.”

“Look, I know I’m not phrasing this great. Words aren’t my strength, you know that.” That’s a lie. Steve had gotten a lot better at speaking since the whole Captain America schtick but when facing Bucky like this, he just seemed to fall over his own feet. “Just saying that I’m grateful for this. But you have to know,” Steve held the ham in two sets of pinched fingers and ripped it in half “that I’m not letting you miss a meal for me. I know this body is weaker but I can live with that. Don’t go missing out meals for me. You got work today?” Bucky nodded. He had a midday shift, though, which was helpful. “Then you need to eat. Can’t have you passing out.”

“There’s only one person in this apartment that passes out.”

“And we both know it’s you so get eating ‘cause I’m not eating mine until you eat yours.” Bucky sighed; Steve could be a stubborn bastard when he wanted to be. “Fine,” he capitulated, stuffing the ham in his mouth but taking as many chews as he could before he instinctively swallowed. He couldn’t let it go to waste. He hummed, satisfied and watched as Steve stuffed his own in his mouth but swallowed it down immediately. “Hey, you wasted that!”

Steve recoiled. “I did? What did I-“ He paused. “Oh, forgot. I’m not used to this. Oh my god, I’m so sorry that must have been expensive-“

“No, don’t worry about it. You didn’t think. It was given to us by Mr Hammond next door anyway. Don’t worry about it.”

“I still should have-“

“Nah, I’m over it, you should be too. Anyway, what ya wanna do before I head out?”

They didn’t end up doing much. Steve drew a bit whilst Bucky tinkered with a book (for lack of a better word, Steve didn’t really think he was reading it but he was doing _something_ with it.) Lunchtime came and with it, no food - much to Steve’s disappointment… and understanding. Bucky had to head out to the docks but he’d be back that evening, leaving Steve to do what he will with the few hours he had spare. And whilst little to nothing had changed since Bucky left, Steve could feel the familiar uselessness creep up on him. Sketching soon became mundane and all the pulp novels they had now felt like mush compared to the things he read in the future. It was all generic, cheesy and awkward. A novelty as release but one that had outdated terribly. Steve still had a soft spot for the 40s but when immersed in it, he suddenly found himself wishing for the grittiness of modern action books or the fear that came when reading a chilling horror. Not this…generic blather. Sure, there were a lot of great novels around but Steve didn’t have access to them. He had no idea where the library was or if it was close and he couldn’t afford anything more than an even-more generic than usual pulp. Flicking past the page in which the hero punched the generic villain and somehow won (seriously, no one would be beaten by just one punch; Steve would know), Steve finally decided he was fed up and threw the book aside, staring longingly at the ceiling.

It lasted until Bucky returned. Steve had to have been stuck in a thought loop because as soon as Bucky came in, he shouted “your arm!” when he saw flesh instead of metal before realising the absolute insanity of his statement. This Bucky had nothing wrong with his arm. “What? Am I bleeding?” Bucky responded automatically, worriedly staring at his arm, pulling at the fabric of his sleeve to see if any blood had seeped through his jacket. He’d be screwed if it had. The other jacket had finally worn out and this was his only one left. If it got stained with blood, he had no idea what he would wear anymore. He had a feeling his boss (a surly, old-man) wouldn’t appreciate blood on his work clothes - probably a bad look for the company, or something.

“No…no,” Steve breathed, chastising himself, moving to sitting up and hissing as a pain flooded his back. He’d been lying in the wrong position for too long. Groaning, he apologised. “Sorry, got lost in my head, thought I was somewhere else.”

“Oh…” Bucky trailed off, scrambling to find words. “You alright?” He tried, knowing it would probably only end in a defensive statement or a rise to anger. “Fine,” Steve huffed; defensive it is. Bucky sighed and went to sit down next to Steve, smiling gently. “Hey, how about we go out tonight? We both need a bit of fun.” Suddenly, Bucky felt the immediate urge to retract his words. “Unless you don’t…do that sort of thing…in the future.” Steve rolled his eyes at him, shuffling. “Buck, stop getting all apologetic on me. It ain’t you.”

“Am I starting to hear a little more Brooklyn again?” Bucky teased.

“Maybe,” Steve answered cryptically, smiling. “Anyway, look, you go to the dance. Still can’t dance so…”

“No, Stevie!” Bucky complained. “Come out. Let’s have fun. Please?”

“That ain’t gonna work on me, Barnes.”

“But it’ll be fun!”

“It won’t be for me.”

“Why not. There are plenty of girls there to dance with. You know I wish I could dance with you but-“

“Stop pushing, Buck. I don’t want to dance with a random girl. I don’t want to go out. I don’t want to ruin my night by trying.”

“You’re giving up before you even try.”

“I have tried!” Steve shouted suddenly. “I have tried and tried and tried and has it ever worked? Just because I’m from the future, doesn’t mean I don’t remember what it used to be like. The first time I ever got attention from anyone but you was when I was healed because NO ONE wants little ol’ Steve Rogers. In fact, in a few years time, no one will want Steve Rogers at all! They’ll want someone else entirely. So I ain’t going.” Steve, despite his stubbornness, used to always go out when Bucky pushed him. Maybe it was _because_ of his stubbornness that he went out in hopes that someone might even glance his way. But Steve was older now and he knew exactly what people thought. He knew that no one but Bucky could see past the weak body and visible bones. No one.

“Come on, it’ll be-“

“Did you not just listen to a word I said?!” Steve shouted. “Fuck you! You can’t force me to do something I don’t want to do.”

Bucky just stared at him in disbelief for a moment before the righteous anger flooded over him. “You know what,” Bucky hissed, “fuck you too. The future has made you cruel. I was just trying to help and you decide to throw that in my face. I care about you so much, Steve, and you can’t even be bothered to come to a dance with me. Because you didn’t think about me, huh? You didn’t think that maybe _I_ want you there. Because I care about you and I want to see my best guy having fun. You don’t think _I_ deserve a bit of fun after working a six-hour shift at the docks? No. Because you don’t think, Steve. You just lose your temper and never think about the consequences, at least that much hasn’t changed.” With that, Bucky stormed off, slamming the front door behind him as he went to entertain himself, by himself.

Steve watched, lost in the incandescence of his own head. He may have learnt to reign in his temper over the years but once pushed past his limits, he couldn’t take it back. He hadn’t fought in too long and the uselessness was weighing down on him. People needed Captain America; they did not need Steve Rogers. Especially the girls down at the dancehall. And anyway, all that Steve ever remembered feeling back then was jealousy as he watched Bucky flit through girls like they were all his lovers and that it wasn’t the lonely man in the corner. Steve found himself unworthy of Bucky’s affections as soon as he laid eyes on another pretty girl. Steve had never had a problem with maintaining low self-esteem.

Steve could feel the guilt over Bucky’s anger creep into the edges of his mind but with his mind already so buzzing, he replaced it with sadness, watching the door silently as he decided whether to follow him or not. He wasn’t going to apologise; he made the right decision. But, Bucky was right: Steve didn’t think about Bucky’s feelings, only his own and for that, he was in the wrong.

“Fuck.”

*

Steve was trying to figure out the whole modern technology thing…again. It wasn’t really going any better than last time. Not really because he couldn’t do it but rather because he was overwhelmed by the endless amount of things he had to learn how to do. He could work the TV fine now and could even find his way around a Starkpad but when Bucky had told him he also had to learn to use the kitchen appliances, bedroom appliances and how to speak to the weird robot in the ceiling, Steve found himself wondering if he needed to do this at all. After all, he was heading back to the past (hopefully soon) with absolutely no memory of all this (probably) so it’s not as if it would help him in the long run. Bucky, though, was quick to disagree.

“Steve was very good at picking up technology in the future. For all we know, you retain the skills just forget what to apply them. If not, anyway, you may be here long enough to need them. Today, everyone relies on technology so you’re gonna have to learn it, pal.”

“Fine,” Steve huffed, returning to fiddling with the toaster. Why do you need a machine just to do toast? Can’t you just use the oven? Steve didn’t understand. No, scrap that, why couldn’t they just eat bread? Toast wasn’t _that_ much better and it was a lot of hassle, really. Pressing down on the little lever-presser thing again, Bucky finally huffed a laugh and pulled up behind Steve, pressing himself up behind Steve and leaning around him, his head resting on Steve’s shoulder. Steve didn’t need a mirror to know he was blushing all the way down to his chest (fuck pale skin). “You know if you were any worse at this, it’d be the same as teaching a potato.” Bucky sighed, smiling, leaning around the press the lever - this time is stayed down. “Come on, it’s simple-“

“Did you just call me a _potato_?!”

“No, I said you were similarly skilled to a potato,” Bucky teased with a mischievous smirk.

“You jerk!”

“Punk,” Bucky replied with a wink, unplugging the toaster before Steve could damage it anymore. Doing it any more wasn’t going to help.

“You know, Buck,” Steve shouted at his back, “you didn’t used to be like this: you used to be friendly!” Suddenly, almost inevitably, Bucky’s shoulders began to shake. For a second, Steve thought that maybe he’d said something wrong, stepped too far. Had he caused Bucky to cry? But no. Bucky turned his head and he was…laughing. Full on laughing. His mouth opened to show his pearly-white teeth, his crows feet wrinkled at the corners of his eyes and a dangerously amused noise escaped his mouth. “You know, Steve,” he choked out through his laughter, “I may have a lotta problems in my head but I remember full well that I wasn’t all that nice to you.”

“Well, maybe you’re mean _er_ ,” Steve argued with a smile, confused as to how it had ended up this way. He hadn’t since this Bucky laugh since he got here. Not properly anyway and one silly comment and the man was gone and Steve didn’t even know why. It kind of felt like Steve had accidentally stumbled into an inside joke that he hadn’t been aware of.

“I seem to remember a time that I called you as helpful physically as a tomato. Don’t think that’s very nice.”

Steve rolled his eyes. “You have an obsession with vegetables.”

“Tomato’s a fruit.”

“Tomato is _not_ a fruit.” The comment only seemed to spur on a battle of wits that Bucky inevitably won: he had only battled Tony Stark once but it had taught him many tricks. Future Steve would have beaten him; he and Tony fought a lot more than even Bucky could count. This Steve didn’t care though, he was just happy to see Bucky like this - happy. He was beginning to fear that Bucky was never like that anymore. And though the grief of losing his own Bucky was still at the edge of his mind, threatening to push into his consciousness, the grief of seeing a Bucky that didn’t smile anymore may have been greater.

*

Bucky returned home far after the sun had said, his frown still deeply ingrained in his face as he spotted Steve waiting on the couch, barely awake but there nonetheless. Steve turned, looking Bucky in the eye. Both of them waited in the silence, waiting for the other to apologise for at least some of their actions but neither would let up: Bucky could be a stubborn ass when he wanted to be too. “Look,” Steve started but Bucky was quick to interrupt.

“This doesn’t sound like an apology.”

“Because it’s not,” Steve retorted calmly. “But I want to explain.” He sighed, pausing to wait for a reply before continuing but when he received none, he powered on anyway. “You know I’m in the future, you know that I got there somehow. I’ve told you medicine was involved but I didn’t really explain it well. You knowing that is bad enough because soon you’ll understand but you can’t tell a soul, especially not me. Anyway, there’s a lot more to it. But now, I don’t look the same. I became…well…objectively better looking, I guess.” He huffed a self-deprecating laugh but continued on. “And it was then that I noticed that I was finally getting looked at. When I was just small, it didn’t matter because I didn’t really have all the much to compare to. But now, now that I know what it’s like to get attention for how I look, I will notice so much more how _no one_ is paying attention to me. And I don’t want to do that. My friend, in the future, he tells me that I force myself into a lot of bad situations and I’ve been trying to stop. So here’s me stopping. And I…I guess I’m sorry for hurting you. I didn’t think about what you would think but I stand by my decision. But I’m still sorry for hurting you.”

Bucky gaped at him for almost a minute before he had the bravery to speak. “You _are_ apologising?”

“If you make a big deal of this, I’m taking it back.”

“But you’re apologising! You never apologise!”

“Seems the future’s done at least one good thing for me.”

Bucky smiled softly at Steve and took a deep breath. “Okay, I accept your apology. And I’m sorry too. I pushed you too far.” Suddenly, Steve laughed, smiling cheekily at Bucky. “You know how much more we could have got done if we just apologised more often?”

“Yeah, punk, I’ve noticed. But you don’t seem inclined to that.”

Steve shrugged. “Jerk.” Bucky just rolled his eyes, held out his hand and brought Steve to his feet, leading them to the bedroom, where they both collapsed on the bed and fell asleep.

The fight had been resolved too quickly. The anger hadn’t had time to play its course. But neither wanted to acknowledge the feelings that were festering inside.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve goes to do the tests with Tony and Bucky is less than impressed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is a lot shorter than usual but I've been having some struggles writing for long periods of time so everything's coming out a bit shorter. BUT! It's earlier. Either, this will mean that the next chapter will be longer or that updates will now be on Fridays rather than the usual Sundays. School's a bit of a bitch so everything's pretty much a mess. Either way, less about me, enjoy the chapter!
> 
> [Your kudos and comments are hugely appreciated and thank you so much for the great reception this book has already received]

Despite Steve’s reluctance to do the tests, he recognised the importance of doing so. If only after the twenty-seventh message from Tony, chastising him for his inability to arrive. Bucky had tried to hold him back but Steve’s stubbornness, ever bullish, was victorious and Bucky finally let him go through with it.

They wound through the emptying corridors with Bucky tailing Steve likes a lost puppy (or, probably more accurately, a guard dog). As they approached, it dawned upon Steve how little he wanted to do these tests, which was probably - subconsciously - why it had actually taken him so long to get to this point: it was already early April and Spring was in full bloom. But, either way, he couldn’t hold himself back now. After all, how bad could it be? He’d gone to the hospital plenty of times (he had the debts to prove it) and he shouldn’t have been scared of any needles anymore. And Bucky was there, protecting him, making sure nothing went wrong. So, really, what was the worst that could happen?

Weaving further down the meandering corridors, Bucky leaned over to speak into Steve’s ear, glaring at the two quickly scurrying members of staff. “Is this really a good idea?”

“Of course it’s a good idea,” Steve scoffed with false confidence. “What do you think’s going to happen.”

“Not much good.”

Steve huffed. “It’s going to be fine. Tony promised that.”

“Tony is not a man you trust.” Steve’s head snapped to the side, eyeing Bucky warily. With thinned eyes, he examined Bucky, looking for the tell-tale signs of what was hiding behind his thin veneer. “What did he do to you to make him hate you so much?”

“I told you, I killed his parents.”

“That doesn’t say why you hate _him_.”

“The consequences of my actions led me to hate him.”

“You’re doing that thing where you speak like a politician again. You go blank, like you can’t even face your own words, they just come out your mouth. Why, Buck? What are you trying to hide from me?”

“Your future.” Bucky strode ahead, leading Steve behind as they found their way to Tony’s lab. It was elaborate, to say the least. As Steve’s feet crossed the threshold, he was held in the clutches of his own amazement, paralysed. It was nothing like the science fiction novels he used to read. This wasn’t rusted metal and medical instruments. It was white - all white, or grey, at least. Glass covered more than most the surfaces with a few metal implements strewn about. And rather than the dank, dingy walls of a secret facility, the windows flooded the crystal-like room in New York sun. “Mini Steve In Big Body, welcome back!” He turned and glared, almost matching Bucky in his irritation. “And you too, terminator.”

“It’s Bucky.”

Tony raised an eyebrow. “Am I supposed to care?”

Steve rolled his eyes. “Stop fighting. I want to get this over with. What do you want to do with me?” Tony shrugged off his hatred and focused back on Steve. “A few blood samples to see how much of you is future you and how much is past you. Or just you. You are past you. Damn, this is confusing, and I don’t admit to that very often. I’m a genius, you know. Anyway, we’ll also run a few brain scans to try and see the variations again between our Steve and you. That’ll be run by Brucie over there,” he said, pointing the meek scientist in the corner who waved at the pair nervously, eyeing Bucky warily. “For today, that’s it.”

“Today?”

“Once the results are through, we’ll need to run tests depending on the results. This isn’t a one time thing.”

Steve sighed. “Shoulda known. No hospital ever seems keen to let me go.”

“Normally for good reason,” Bucky pointed out, ignoring the other two in the room. He really didn’t want to deal with Tony right now and although he had no qualms with Bruce, he didn’t want to fight the Hulk: it was a losing battle from the start. Despite Bucky’s usual calm and quiet demeanour, he had a way of pushing people’s buttons. He wasn’t willing to push the bright green ‘Hulk’ button just now.

“If you’re talking about the pneumonia incident. I was _fine_.”

“You passed out the moment you stood up.”

“I _tripped_.”

“Tripped?”

“Yeah, tripped.”

Bucky scoffed. “Good try, Steve, but you did not trip. Now, can we get on with these tests. The quicker we get out of here, the better.” Only then did Steve see the sweat beginning to accumulate on Bucky’s forehead, the nervous tick of his fingers, a gentle tap on his thigh: tap, tap, tap-tap, tap. Bucky was anxious, Steve realised. Part of Bucky’s past, he deduced. His Bucky would be delighted by this environment, would have fired off a thousand questions and awed at the future technology but…but this Bucky looked like it was going to be used to kill him.

Maybe at one point, it had.

“Okay then, Terminator. Steve, lie on the table for us.”

Steve groaned. “Ugh, it really is like the hospital.”

“What’s so bad about this 1940s hospital of yours?” Tony asked as Bruce prepped a needle and placed it on the side table for Tony to pick up.

“Do you even have to ask? The nurses were alright, I guess, but the rest of it…ugh. Your bins are cleaner than that hospital was.”

Tony frowned, like he was concentrating on something. “Your mother was a nurse, wasn’t she?” Steve’s eyes widened, his eyes darting to Tony’s. He paused for a second before asking “how did you know?”

Tony sighed, looking more downtrodden that Steve had ever seen him. This man was the pinnacle of wit, sarcasm and defensiveness (which is saying something coming from Steve) but now he just looked like a broken facade. With a cruelly self-deprecating smile on his face, he huffed. “You know, before Terminator here, you and me were best friends. Or something like that. You know, best buds, BFFs…” he shook himself out of it when Steve began to zone out. “Anyway, we were close. You liked me, a lot. You told me a lot.”

“I don’t want to offend you but you don’t seem-“

“The kinda person you would open up to? I’m not, please don’t. I don’t like people crying…or emotions as a matter of fact. But I’m not lying when I say we’re close. Or were close. Sometimes things slip out. Or sometimes things just have to be said.” By this point, Bruce was warily eyeing Tony like he was about to have a seizure whilst Bucky stood frozen in the corner, staring wide-eyed at his feet.

“I was not the reason you and Steve fell out, Tony,” he hissed through gritted teeth, his eyes never leaving the floor.

“You wanna bet?” Tony challenged, spinning around to face Bucky.

“Tony,” Bruce chastised, motioning to Steve with a shake of his head. “The tests.”

“Oh, yeah, right. Can we begin now, Capsicle?”

“Capsicle?”

“Oh, yeah, it’s a joke because you-“

“Tony!” Bruce hissed.

“Oh yeah, I get it. Can’t tell a person from the past the future. That’s not good. Got it.”

Bucky shrugged. “I’ve told him quite a lot already. It doesn’t matter. We think he’s not going to remember once he’s back.”

“How can you be sure?” Bruce asked, eyebrows furrowed in deep thought.

“Because when Steve wakes up, he doesn’t remember. Or at least I don’t think he does. And any damage we’re causing should have been having an effect by now. Or, we may be unlucky and it may all go wrong when he goes back and still remembers but I’ve already taken the risk. Telling him more won’t change a thing.”

“Strange is going to kill you,” Tony sang, delighting at Bucky’s misfortune.

“Strange can do as he likes. He doesn’t control me.”

“Eh, as you say Terminator. Steve, lay out your arm, we need to take a blood sample.” Steve sighed and hesitantly pushed out his arm, eyeing the needle warily. “Oh, don’t tell me your scared of needles! I thought you were always in the hospital!” Tony complained.

“I’m not,” Steve whimpered. “I just don’t like strangers sticking them in my arm.”

Tony sighed. “Look at it this way, Cap, we’ve known each other for years, you just don’t remember it. You can trust me. I’ve never tried to hurt you-“ Bucky gave him a pointed look, which he pointedly ignored. “Not without good reason. It’s just a needle, I’ll be good with it, I promise.”

“Tony,” Bruce interrupted, shyly pressing his glasses up his nose. “Maybe it would be better if I did it. I’m the doctor, after all.” Tony frowned but looked to Steve for confirmation. “That better with you, Cap?”

“Don’t know why you keep calling me Cap, it’s Steve. And I dunno. I guess, if he’s the doctor.” Tony nodded and backed away, motioning for Bruce to take his place. Bruce, with the bravery of a weasel, checked the needle before beginning to take the samples, Bucky’s vigilant gaze watching him the entire time. As soon as he had enough to run tests (not that much at all), he propped himself down into a chair and began to tap away at his keyboard, facing away from Bucky as a slither of green flickered on a vein in his neck. Tony stared for a moment, eyes slightly too wide, before he shook himself out of it and looked back to Steve. “Okaaay, I’ll leave Bruce to do that…typing thing, whilst I set up the MRI. You know what that is?” Steve shook his head, frowning. “Well, let the genius explain it to you-“ It only ended in Tony giving a scientific spiel that Steve couldn’t hope to understand but he got ‘magnets’, ‘scanning’ and ‘brain’ and he guessed that would be enough.

Trepidly, with a little help from Bucky, despite his newly large stature, he approached the MRI machine and flinched as large clattering noises spouted from the machines bulky white frame. For all that modern machinery was slick, this was still large, although a pristine white. “You’re going to lie on that bed - or rather slab - there and then we’ll roll you in and scan your brain for all that pretty stuff in your head.” Steve’s eyes widened a fraction. “Can you…can you read minds?” Steve asked, shocked, the future really was a wild place. But, much to his relief, Tony began to laugh - or cackle, really. “No, no, we can’t read minds. Just neutral pathways. It’s simple really-“

“Um, I think I’ll just get it over with if you don’t mind?” Steve interrupted, surreptitiously clenching Bucky’s hand behind his back. He and this Buck may not have been a thing but he took comfort in the touch of another person. Still, he wasn’t willing to be thrown out for being queer, he wouldn’t stand for that, so the hands remained hidden from Tony’s blind sight.

“Oh, of course. Hop on.” Giving Bucky a meaningful look - which was much more like an appeal not to do something stupid - Steve clambered on the machine, watching how Bucky’s hand, once encased by his, were trembling. The sweating was worse now, beads sticking strands of hair to his forehead. Not Bruce nor Tony seemed to pay attention to the palpable anxiety rolling off him so Steve would either guess that this was the norm _or_ both Tony and Bruce were holding some (in some cases) veiled hatred that they weren’t addressing.

Once on the slab, it took far too long for Steve to be moved inside, trapped by the rumbling musings of the machine. When the movement had stopped, though, was when the panic settled in. Claustrophobia clutched at his lungs like an old friend whilst his eyes darted aimlessly from white to white, trying to focus on the faint lines where metal met metal or plastic met plastic. Focusing on the thin seams didn’t seem to help, only discombobulating him further; the lines were so thin that they were flickering in and out of his vision and he was unsure whether he was hallucinating or not. All at once, the machine abruptly began to vibrate and he could hear distant rolling: of what, he wasn’t sure. Through a tinny speaker, Tony’s voice arrived. “You need to calm down, Steve, we need clear results.” There was a shout of pain before the voice was replaced by Bucky’s. “Steve, are you okay? Are they hurting you? Are you in pain?” Steve’s breath was so laboured that he could barely answered, rasping a thin “I’ll be fine,” but even he could hear the distinguished fear veiling his voice.

For the next part, no one seemed to turn off the microphone. (Where the hell was Bruce? He should have been doing the tests. Steve hadn’t seen him since he had scurried away). With Steve still stuck in a rumbling box, he listened with bated breath to the argument on the other side. “Let him out,” Bucky ordered. “Now.”

“No can do, Tin-Man. It’s nearly done.”

“It’s fine,” Steve tried. “It’ll only be a bit longer.”

“No, you’re scared. Something’s wrong. I told you they’d lie. All they ever want to do is experiment on us. They’ll do what _they_ did to me.” There was rustling on the other side. “Turn off the machine!” Bucky shouted after a few mumbled arguments. “Turn it off!” He boomed as Tony attempted to fight back.

“Bucky! Bucky stop! It’s fine!” By now, the results had already been ruined. Steve was shifting too much, struggling in the confines of his make-shift prison. The images would just come out a blur. For now, though, the blood tests would have to do because-

“Let him out!” Bucky roared, throwing Tony into a wall. In the shock that followed, no one dared move. Steve was stock still, praying for an end to the madness - and he’d never been one to back down from a fight. For the first time, he saw how Bucky had changed. This wasn’t protecting him; this was paranoia. This was something that he never saw in his own Bucky except for those hidden hotel nights or when they wee stuffed beneath heavy blankets when Bucky thought someone might catch them and get them arrested for sodomy. But that was reasonable, that wasn’t an irrational fear, that was entirely, irrevocably _rational_. This was not; this was madness.

Tony rushed to the panel and pressed a button for Steve’s release whilst Bucky rushed down to the room holding the MRI. Bucky stared at the box for only moments before hurrying the process of extracting Steve and pulling out the table, dragging Steve to his feet, patting him down like a mother would do when they found a their lost child. “I’m fine, Bucky.” He tried to sound strong but he couldn’t help the fear that ran through him; this man had just thrown someone against a wall because of his own paralysing fears.

“You’re not. You were scared-“

“No, _you_ were scared,” Steve argued hotly, holding his head high and looming over Bucky (even if he was barely much taller, or even taller at all. He felt taller. He felt so much taller. For once, he had the power. He was the one in the dominant position, he could finally be the one that scared the sanity into Bucky). “Have you even checked to see if _Tony_ was injured.”

“He’s not my concern.”

“He is if you throw him at a wall!”

“He wouldn’t let you go.”

“You…you are insane. I need to go,” Steve whispered, eyes wide. His heart was still beating a million times a minute. He rushed off, winding through unfamiliar corridors, travelling through unfamiliar rooms until he found an empty room with a few chairs scattered around and a coffee-maker buzzing quietly in the corner. Steve didn’t care; if he had to guess, this was a place for staff but he didn’t have it in him to care.

He was alone for all of five minutes, wistfully wishing for the past to return, sitting in an uncomfortable plastic chair only further spiralling him into wistfulness (when had wood gone out of fashion?), before Bucky found him.

“How’d you find me?” He sighed, looking up at the sweat-laden man, inspecting the frantic red of his eyes and the trembling of his limbs.

“FRIDAY.”

“The computer in the walls?”

“Yes.”

Steve sighed, burying his head in his hands. “Why would you do that?” He finally asked, moving his hands from his face to thread through his hair and fall hopelessly too his sides.

“Ask FRIDAY?”

“Don’t play dumb, Barnes. Why did you throw Tony?”

“I didn’t throw him.”

“It sounded like it.”

“I pushed him.”

Steve groaned frustratedly, throwing his hands up in the air. “That’s no different!”

“Well-“

“Don’t you dare try and play smart with me. You _pushed_ a man, potentially greatly harming him, for no reason.”

“You were trapped. I was getting you out.” Bucky was frowning like he really didn’t understand the problem at hand. “I was protecting you.”

“They weren’t hurting me. Why would you think they were?”

“You were in that…machine. I could hear your fear. You shouldn’t have to feel that.”

“Like you did?” Steve retorted cruelly.

“Yes, like I did,” Bucky replied calmly, a glaze falling over his eyes; it was the blank politician staring at him again, his mouth, his words, disconnected from his own mind. He looked like a puppet on someone else’s strings.

Steve sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, finally standing up. “Look, I know you went through a lot but that doesn’t mean you can lash out like that. It’s not…not you.”

“I’m not the Bucky you know.”

“I know but still, I believe the core of you is still there. And _that’s not you_. Just, don’t do it again. Especially since I have a feeling we’re going to have to repeat those tests.” Bucky capitulated with a stern nod. Steve wanted to push for verbal confirmation but fell short on will-power. The tension didn’t dissipate as they stared each other down but at least they found a resolution, even if only a short-term one.

Maybe Steve was finally beginning to understand that even the future held a familiar face, there was nothing behind that face that he recognised.

5.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a very bad decision with the best of intentions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this is another short one because it's the second half of the last chapter. But, it's out very early so I might be able to get the next chapter out by Sunday again. Hope you enjoy it because I'm quite happy with how this turned out. Not entirely but the style is one I'm favouring.
> 
> Also, on an unrelated note I want to put in a shameless plug. If you enjoy this, I've just published another story called 'Three Men In A Loft'. It's my attempt at humour and I would hugely appreciate it if you wanted to check it out.
> 
> -fouryearslater

Bucky fell onto the old sofa with a quiet groan, watching Steve warily from the corner of his eye. The cold, late March air blustered through the single-glazed windows, blasting through the seeps and cracks of the old, brown-stone building. Steve was wrapped up in a cocoon of blankets, huddling inside like a child, only showing the gleam of his ice-blue eyes and the soft locks of his blonde hair. He could feel Bucky’s gaze on him but adamantly ignored it in favour of trying to warm himself up; the more he thought about it, the more cold he felt - it seemed like fitting punishment for his ever-lasting idleness. “Steve, are you okay-“

“I’m fine,” Steve cut in before Bucky could breathe another word. Bucky, with his eyes downcast, though his head still held high in some poor attempt at pride, tried to form words. Although they came out garbled, there was enough there to make his point. “I’m sorry. I should have worked more. I could have got the oven going, bought some coal, I just didn’t think it would be this cold-“

“Stop it, Bucky, it’s not your fault. I’m fine,” Steve lied, his teeth chattering.

“No, Steve, I should have-“ Steve huffed and brought out a dreaded arm from his cocoon to cover Bucky’s mouth. “You couldn’t have done any more without catching death. Now, get over here and warm me up,” Steve ordered, quickly pillowing his arm underneath the scratchy wool of his blanket; at least he was small enough now to bundle up in it - Bucky, unfortunately, was not. Bucky was quick to capitulate to Steve’s demands and tucked up behind Steve, spreading his legs open so Steve could fit between them before holding him in his arms.

“You know,” Bucky breathed, “I thought you wouldn’t want to do this. You know, because-“

“Just because I’m with someone in the future, doesn’t mean you can’t warm me up,” Steve argued easily.

“I know but this seems…intimate.”

Steve shook his head vehemently. “No. You’re making it more awkward than it needs to be. You warm me up and yes, to some others, it may look a little queer but that ain’t so bad when no ones lookin’.”

“You know, somehow it sounds funny now when you slip into Brooklyn.”

“Good funny?”

“Yeah, it sounds nice.” Bucky smiled, resting his head on Steve’s shoulders, lips pressed against his clavicle. “Buck,” Steve sighed, tone melancholically wistful. “It can’t be like this,” he continued as Bucky’s lips pressed harder.

“Why not? You have a man in the future but it’s still me. It’s not cheating-“

“I know but it feels like it. I don’t want you to hold back with me. I want you to treat me like you treated him. But this…I can’t do that to him, Buck.”

“I _am_ him.”

“What did we say about pushing things?” Steve snapped but reigned himself in quickly. “Sorry. It’s just, he’s not as close to you as you think he is. You have to think of him as a different person.”

“Is that…because something happens to me?”

“You know I can’t tell you,” Steve sighed. Slowly, he shifted, turning so his side was pressed against Bucky’s chest. “It’s not so long before you know anyway.” The conversation tapered off soon after and Bucky was left to go to work, fighting the battling cold with layers and thick skin whilst Steve toughed it out inside the apartment.

*

The days were passing quickly but with them brought more work, more sun and more boredom. April came and brought the first of the blooming flowers but in a city as smoggy as Brooklyn, the only visible difference was the longer days, bringing with it longer work hours. Bucky, more and more, spent his life at work, rarely coming home apart from to dress before he went out and relaxed. Bucky was a social being and didn’t do well being locked up at home but Steve was finding himself winding into madness without his best friend. So, when the wind didn’t pound as harshly and the windows went from causing a ruckus to a mere rattle, Steve decided it was time that he took his life into his own hands again. Just because he was back in his old, frail body, didn’t mean he should have to change the way he lived. When living at the Tower, Steve went out most days. Or, at least, due to the size of the compound, travelled around a fair amount.

With fire in his veins and an inexplicable ardor, he bundled himself up in Bucky’s broken jacket - unusable for him but plenty good for Steve, despite it’s ill-fittingness - and set out to the streets of New York. Evening was approaching and whilst the moon was rising in the sky, the sun was still yet to set. But, even then, the roaches of the streets were already crawling from their hideouts to prey on the weak. Whilst the old Steve may have just stumbled into fights, Steve now knew exactly where to pick. He could pick the bad from the worse and split his time accordingly. But no, he reminded himself, he couldn’t. He was weak. To go for the strongest would be suicide. Well, going for any of them was practically suicide. Settling the adrenaline in his veins, Steve stuffed his hands in his pockets and trudged on, giving bliss to his restless legs. Even with the lack of ‘action’, he finally felt like he could draw a breath.

Now, walking around, it was like he was remembering it all again too. Whilst so far he had only felt pity for himself, being stuck here with no means of escape, when surrounded by it like this he suddenly felt the urge appeased. All those restless nights where Steve had stared at the ceiling and wished for things to go back to how they used to be were now being appeased dutifully.

It was his fault, really, when he wandered too far. Although he’d been careful to stay out of fights, he hadn’t put a thought towards his stamina. His legs ached; his breath was coming in short, sharp bursts; his entire body rattled with exhaustion. In some vague attempt at hope, he looked at the street signs, hoping he recognised one so he could make his way home. But he’d gotten far; almost to Manhattan far. And by now, the moon was already centre-sky and the darkness was shrouding each and every alleyway where the villains crawled and the prey got preyed upon. His breathing picked up a notch as panic began to settle in. No matter what he had previously thought, this place was no longer his home; it was no longer familiar. He had no way to get home: he couldn’t afford a taxi, he had no phone to call anyone and he certainly was in no shape to walk any further in hopes of finding a path.

That was when the screaming started. Not his; high-pitched, almost squealing, a woman’s. Steve’s eyes darted to the side where he could see a flash of feet, heading straight into one of the dark alleyways. Steve couldn’t ignore it. He didn’t even put a thought towards himself, didn’t bother to think it through when he ran after her.

The man that grabbed the girl was well over six-foot. Stocky build, muscular; wouldn’t have been a surprise if he worked alongside Bucky down at the docks. His face was pulled up into a snarl as he pushed the woman - who’s mouth was now covered by a slimy, grime-ridden hand - against the wall. Soon, a smile pulling up the corners of his lips as her body began to give out and hang limply against the wall. But, Steve wouldn’t have it. He used his strategic knowledge and decided that his best option was to mimic Natasha’s fighting style; she was just as short and she fought with the knowledge that most her enemies would be larger than her. Running forward, Steve jabbed the man’s side - ignoring the eruption of pain in his knuckles and the awkward angle his fingers were now resting in - and ducked immediately as the man let go of the woman and swung at Steve. Now he had backed away from the woman, who stared at them in paralysed shock, Steve could see the man acutely, his skin tainted orange by the weakly flickering street lamp at the far end of the alley. His hair was ink black, slicked back like a stereotypical gangster, and his eyes glimmered a dull shade of brown. “You’re gonna pay for that, you punk,” the man shouted, spit flying onto Steve’s face, even from feet below, where he was crouched artfully, his whole body screaming at him to let up; his mind had the skills but his body didn’t have the physical capabilities. If anything, already, he was injured worse than he’d ever been before.

The woman, finally awaking from her fear, ran. The man tried to grab her but Steve was quick to stand, grabbing the arm and using the position to swing and try and sweep the man’s legs from under him. But, the muscle power just wasn’t there; the man shook him off and sent him flying against the wall. Now that the woman had fled, the man’s full attention was on Steve and the look in his eyes…that was the look Steve had seen in all his opponents eyes: hunger for blood.

Steve tried to roll away but his legs were weakened, making him as slow as a melee opponent. With his size, agility was key and if he was slow, he had no advantage at all. It played out as such. The man’s fists pummelled him quickly and effectively, beating him bloody. His nose cracked, his eyes bloomed a violent shade of purple whilst his lips split and bled in four separate places. A cut ran down the right-hand side of his forehead, thee grimy blood dripping down into his eyes, blinding him. The man stepped back, looking keenly down at his prey. “Look, punk, run back to Jimmy and tell him to not mess with us on Dave’s turf again, you hear? This is a warning. Next time, you’re dead.” Steve, unable to comprehend the words, nodded meekly and curled up into a ball whilst the man strode away, empowered by his victory. That would usually be Steve. Steve always won nowadays or he would have been dead a long time ago.

That’s when the words settled in and the relief flooded through him. Even bruised, bloody and half-way to dead, he could recognise luck when it came. The man had mistaken him for a gang-member. A wiry one but one nonetheless; Steve was finally grateful that, even if his body couldn’t take it, his skills had gotten him something. The man had recognised that he was trained and mistaken it for gang-warfare which Steve was just fine with, seeing as it was the only reason he was still alive.

Frailly, Steve staggered to his feet and escaped the alleyway. His whole body rang loudly for the need to help, or stop, or hell, just give up. But Steve staggered on, as stubborn as a bull, until the sun was on the horizon and he could almost feel the infections in his cuts. “Steve!” Someone called frantically, followed by hurried footsteps. Steve was too delirious - half-blind and concussed - to figure out who it was or why they wanted him but hoping that the stranger would be kind enough to help, he let himself fall to the side, hoping that he may just fall into someone and not to the hard tarmac of the road. “Steve. Oh fuck, Steve. No, no, you’re gonna be okay, Steve. I’m gonna get you home, Stevie. I’m gonna get you home.” He didn’t hit the concrete; he hit a rock-hard chest. Curling up like a child, Steve let him be lifted - as light as a feather - and carefully let his body travel with the lulling waves of someone’s footsteps as they carried him, slowly sending him into sleep.

Steve woke up before they arrived home, the situation dawning upon him like the memory of a nightmare, instilling fear and embarrassment down to his bones. His eyes flickered open, his pupils dilated, slowly withdrawing as the early morning sun blinded him. He was tucked into one of Bucky’s jackets, creating a mantel around him to protect him from the harsh winds of late Winter. He took the opportunity to have a peek at Bucky’s face, taken aback by the incandescence lighting up his eyes. A scowl permeated across Bucky’s face, the crows feet at the edge of his eyes defined by the irritated slits of his eyes. “Buck-“

“Thank God,” Bucky sighed, his whole body realising the wound up breath he had been holding. “You really scared me there. Fuck,” he breathed. “No, seriously, what the hell, Steve? What made you think that was a good idea? I’ve been looking for you for-“

“Can we save this for when we’re home?” Steve whispered meekly, curling into Bucky’s chest like a young child. The exhaustion wasn’t letting Steve have a good fight or giving himself a chance to explain and anyway, here on the street really wasn’t the best place: the rumour mill had probably already begun to spin. Bucky visibly reigned himself in, the tension in his shoulders causing his arms to struggle with Steve’s weight. Steve may have been light but the prolonged journey was starting to take a toll on his muscles.

Steve, despite the bone-deep exhaustion, stretched outwards. “I can- I can walk,” he stuttered, trying to jump to his feet but was instead gently shown to the ground by Bucky, who stared at him anxiously. Feeling steady enough on his feet, Steve began to shuffle forward but was stopped by a shooting pain in his leg. Like fire, it raged through his nervous system like it was gasoline; the pain was sharp, short but unforgettable. “Buck-“ Steve gasped, only to fall straight back into Bucky’s arms.

“Fuck, your leg,” Bucky exhaled, worryingly bundling Steve back in his arms. “It’s only a little further. It’ll be fine. I’ll carry you.”

“No, I can-“

“Steve, for once in your life, stop fucking arguing and let me take you home.” Steve complied, his weariness deluding him into weak-will. Bucky, in fairness, managed to get Steve all the way home, dropping him on the sofa with a thud when they arrived. Steve sat up, curling up in a ball as he shrunk away from Bucky’s point-blank glare. Slowly, Bucky’s gaze fell and focused on his leg, soon followed by prying fingers which prodded and poked. “I think it’s broken. Fuck, it’s broken,” Bucky panicked, voice laced with a thousand fears, none of which he could properly express. “You’re gonna have to go to hospital.”

Steve sighed. “I guess that’s okay. It’s nothing new.”

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, “we’re still paying off your last medical bills. We can’t- we can’t afford this.” Steve, eyes wide with shock, fell back, raking his hands nervously through his hair. He fucked up. He didn’t even think of that. He didn’t think of the consequences this would have outside the well-being of his own body; he didn’t think of the repercussions of that. Like an idiot.

He was really being a selfish bitch lately, wasn’t he?

“This is my fault. That was stupid. I forgot what I could take and I-“ He stopped, looking off to the distance, holding back the blurry tears. “I was just stupid.” Bucky groaned, smothering his face in his hands. “Fuck, Steve, you were. You-“ Bucky held himself back, swallowing the words that threatened to spill. “But that doesn’t matter. You look half way to dead but all that matters is that you’re alive. What the help happened to you anyway? I’ve never seen you this bad. This isn’t just a punch-up, this is assault.” Steve stared down at himself, watching the blues and purples bloom on his pale skin so quickly that he could almost watch the shifting colours in real time. “A mistake.” Steve didn’t say any more. Because that’s all it had been, a goddamn mistake.

Bucky stared at him, eyes shifting up and down before he stood up and took a step back. “Fine, you don’t have to tell me but I ain’t sitting around with you in a strop. I’ll take you to the hospital tomorrow. You can’t walk and I can’t carry you any further and I gotta a shift later on so-“ Bucky sighed, shaking his head, like he was changing his mind. “I’ll see you later,” he sighed and trudged off the lock himself in their bedroom.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky lashes out in the future and the past.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guess we're back to Sunday updates again! This chapter is back to a length that I like (around 4000-5000 words usually) and I'm fairly happy with it, especially the later parts.
> 
> Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated (and thank you so much for the support this has gotten already). Enjoy :)
> 
> -fouryearslater

Steve’s anger didn’t fade with time and, if anything, it escalated. Despite his previous inclination to forgive Bucky - who was his only tether in this reality - it was becoming evident that the festering anger was holding him back. It seemed, though, as Steve became more angry, Bucky only became more desperate to cling to Steve, which was his poor attempt at getting in Steve’s ‘good graces’. It failed, as suspected. The more Bucky tried, the more he became the parasite stuck on Steve’s arm, constantly trying to ‘help’, almost like his Bucky yet somehow in a much more abrasive, less understanding way. “Are you okay?” had been replaced by “here, let me do that for you.” Steve was not inept and would not stand for being treated as such. It only worsened when “are you sure you can do that?” had become “you can’t do that” with such certainty that Steve was sure he was going to put a knife in Bucky’s gut and smile whilst doing it.

Any forgiveness that had been left over was had soon fled with the cold Winter and was replaced by the balmy warm of Spring. Steve, stuck stubbornly in his anger, didn’t have the inclination or will to fix the situation, leaving it to Bucky - who had already been tossed to the side - to try and rectify the fracturing friendship. Bucky wasn’t against trying. Despite a multitude of problems, Bucky had been in a fairly good place before the incident and wasn’t incapable of the feat. His therapist - a calm woman called Theresa in her sixties - had taken him through the steps of overcoming grief (of his old self, of his old life) but had also taught him to deal with new circumstances, predominantly in social situations. Bucky, since his captivity at Hydra’s hands, wasn’t known for his able rhetoric or even good conversational skills; his speech was stilted, disjointed and artificial and whilst he had no inclination to become fluent again, he did have the will to be able to communicate ably with Steve. And, although he was uncomfortable doing so - his speech often absent in group situations - he had certainly learnt certain techniques that allowed him to push past his shell and solve a social problem without having a meltdown. Although, when dealing with someone like Steve Rogers, those techniques didn’t always get him very far.

His first attempt went as such: “Steve, I know I didn’t do what you thought was right but-“

“Damn well you didn’t! You could have killed Tony and you’ve subjected me to another round of testing! Bet you didn’t think of that, huh?” He added when Bucky’s eyes widened a little.

“Look, Steve,”

“No, don’t you _look_ me, Barnes. You messed up. That’s it.” And then Steve left, leaving a trail of righteous indignation behind him as Bucky wistfully stared at his back wishing that _for once_ the annoying punk that was Steve Rogers could just, for once, have a damn conversation.

His second attempt hadn’t gone any better. “Steve, I think it’s time we got over this.”

“Are you really telling _me_ that I should get over this? Really?! You nearly killed someone, Bucky! How do you think I can just get over it?”

“You seemed to forgive me immediately after the incident.”

Steve swallowed, backed into a corner. “Well, I take that back then. Because you _don’t deserve to be forgiven._ ” And weren’t they the words Bucky had been waiting to hear for years. Every fear, every bad thing he thought he deserved, slipped out in an insult by the wrong man’s mouth. Everything he thought he deserved was being thrown in his face. He stared at Steve, mouth open, and floundered for words. He was stock-still, muscles bulging uncomfortably as he tried to quell the urge to punch Steve in his self-righteous face. “You don’t realise what you’re saying.”

“Really? You nearly killed a man, Bucky, I don’t think you can be forgiven for that.”

Bucky stormed up to Steve, looming over him to cover up the cracking open of his heart. “I have done more than ‘nearly’ killed a man, Steve. And yet you looked past that. I’ve murdered more than just Tony’s parents. My past is a dark one, yet you didn’t have any fear towards me before. Why now?”

Steve stumbled but caught himself just in time as he tried to back away from Bucky. Yet, his whole body language looked like it was up for a fight - leant forward, tense with his fists clenched. “But this was a _friend_.”

“If you really want to go into it, I was Howard Stark’s friend in some ways too. Yet I killed him.”

“You said you had your reasons.”

“And I had my reasons this time too.”

“But you don’t get it! You didn’t! I was fine and-“ He stopped, clenching his teeth and forcibly withdrawing himself from the argument. “I don’t want to talk about this to someone like you.” It left Bucky reeling, staring after Steve’s retreating form, his heart’s contents finally spilling out, leaving only the vacuous hole of the Soldier behind.

In his best attempt at self-care, Bucky tried to forget the incident. He forced himself to move on and the next day, he tried again (because who said Bucky Barnes wasn’t just as stubborn as Steve Rogers?). But, the third time was weak, the pain of the last escalating attempt crippling him. “Steve, what am I going to have to do for you to forgive me?”

“There ain’t anythin’.”

“Steve, please-“

“Go away, Bucky.”

Bucky felt like he had been hung, drawn and quartered. He fled the room and wandered the corridors like it was a funeral march, his military boots hitting the floor with heavy, melancholy thuds. He barged past staff members and tried to find a place where he could collect himself. He could feel his breaths picking up, his lungs constricting and his body tensing. Fuck, fuck, _fuck!_. He couldn’t have a panic attack now. He hadn’t had one in so long; he’d been doing so well.

He ran back to the apartment, the only place where he might find solace, and slammed open the door, eyes darting to see where Steve was. Steve always could calm him down (it was like, in his delirium, the past few months had completely vacated his mind and was only left with _Steve_ ), Steve always helped. But, the apartment was empty. Bucky checked each room systematically, his hole body tensing periodically as his hyperventilation prevented his body from moving, checked to see whether Steve was moving from room to room, purposefully hiding from him but no, the apartment was empty. “FRIDAY?” He called to the ceiling, eyebrows drawn into a frown, panic settling in like an old friend, “where’s Steve?”

“Mr Rogers is currently in Sir’s lab, continuing the previously halted tests.”

“Wha-“

“Mr Rogers has personally asked me to request that you do not follow him. He would like to do the tests alone.”

*

Steve waited impatiently on the table as Tony hurried back and forth, gathering all sorts of different instruments. “You know, because Terminator isn’t here, we can do so much more! Of course, only if it’s okay with you but we’ll deal with that as it comes. Oh, I’m so delighted he’s not here. He’s such a _bore_. All he does it eat, sleep and _glare_.” Tony paused, looked down at the needle he was holding. “Why isn’t he here?” Tony added, turning to Steve with a swift spin of his chair. “Terminator follows you around everywhere.”

Steve shrugged and motioned to Tony’s arm, where a cast went from the edge of his hand, up his wrist and half-way up his forearm. If anyone was to see Tony’s back, they’d be horrifiedly astonished by the shades of black and blue blooming from all corners. “Ah, knew you had to be better than our Steve in one way,” Tony smirked, looking pleased. Steve frowned in silent question and Tony’s smile only grew. “You prefer me over him. Let me tell you, that’s a new phenomena. But, one that should always be the case. Because, come on, who doesn’t prefer me?” Suddenly, Steve felt the ache of pity; Tony, evidently, had been abandoned by him. For whatever reason, Steve could not quite comprehend. For Bucky, apparently. But this Bucky, that wasn’t his Bucky. That, as he was learning, was someone different all together. And from the sounds of it, he and Tony had been friends for a long time too. But, then again, Tony was partial to hyperbole so who knew how true that really was.

Steve remained silent and let Tony poke and prod him, taking sample of this, that and everything. The previous tests of the MRI had come back completely incomprehensible but Tony promised that they would have to wait. In the meanwhile, they could use some of the more modern - although experimental - kit to scan Steve’s brain and try to pick out anything that could lend a hand to this all. After all, these tests were not only to scan Steve for variances but to find a way for Steve to get home. And so far, they had made shamefully little progress.

Tony continued to poke and prod until he was at least partially satisfied with the results. In the age of research and technology, it would at least give them an idea as to how Steve’s mindset differed from his body and whether it would cause any complications, even if it didn’t get down to the cause of this whole mess. Tony also mentioned a few times talking to Dr Strange, an expert in time and magic (although, apparently, a doctor of medicine) to try and find answers; he seemed much more likely to be helpful than science, of which Tony was reluctant to say.

“Are we nearly done?” Steve asked as Tony finally started sticking electrodes to his head and connected them up to a small monitor. “Last test, little guy, it won’t be much longer.”

“I’m not little-“

“But you _should be_. And anyway, Big Guy is Bruce’s nickname; we can’t be doubling up. And anyway, in comparison, we’re all smaller than the hulk.”

“Is that…the giant?”

Tony shrugged, his eyebrows drawing in. “Well, it’s not really a giant but more of a gamma-fuelled rage-monster but sure, he’s a big green giant if you want to go with that.”

Steve nodded thoughtfully “So, it’s something scientific?” He asked naively.

“Exactly!” Tony shouted, a little too loud, before rolling to the computer, legs raised childishly in the air. Fingers moving across the keyboard so fast that Steve could only track the blur, Tony watched the results come through and saved them into a single file. “FRIDAY, scan for anomalies in reference to our Steve, that’ll show us the differences.”

“Of course, sir,” FRIDAY answers dutifully. Steve was growing fond of her, slowly; robots were a little beyond him but the accent reminded him of his mother. It was nice.

“I think we’re all clear for today, little guy. Anything else you want checked out whilst you’re here? Lose bowel movements…problems down there, if you know what I mean. You know, one in five-“

“I’m fine, Tony,” Steve huffed, leaping off the table like he was a foot smaller. “I’ll go now.”

“Bye-bye,” Tony teased mockingly, fluttering a hand mockingly.

“Bye, Tony,” he sighed, escaping the lab room and taking a deep breath: time to face the storm.

*

Bucky stared out the window, watching New York slowly roll by him. From this height, he could see everything. His eyes were drawn to the yelling taxi drivers on what he would guess was a few blocks away, watching as their arms maniacally around, calling out customers and colleagues alike. Bucky liked their anger, it resonated with him, resonated with the festering monster inside of him, crawling slowly through his veins until it infected his mind: all to distract him from the paralysing anxiety of what was really going on. It was easier for Bucky to be angry than anxious; fear was all too familiar; angry was good, angry was _new_.

Steve…

Fuck, Steve!

Bucky tried to protect him and this is the fucking thanks he gets. Tony could be doing anything to him down there, he could be-

Sweat starts to pool by his temples. Soon, his body is laden with it. He can feel the shaking, the droplets running down his back, the way his clothes stuck to his body. His therapist had told him that his natural anxiety complex had been amplified by his experiences. Something small could now easily look like something large because Bucky wasn’t used to dealing with the smaller things. So, sometimes as slow as molasses, sometimes as quick as lightning, Bucky would feel that fear-mongering anxiety take over him for the smallest of things; a forgotten key, though anyone could let him in; a forgotten lunch, even though he had money to get something from a vending machine; a pain in his lungs, even though he knew he couldn’t contract illnesses anymore.

The trembling became uncontrollable and he was forced to sit, staring out at the vista with wild-eyes. He felt like a caged animal, prowling uselessly until his keeper came back to supply him with something. Bucky’s anger, as his anxiety spiralled out of control, spiralled alongside. His rage had veins bulging in his neck; his metal fist was making indents in the armrest of the sofa.

“James?” Bucky span around, rising to his feet so quickly that someone could have easily thought he was never sitting down. But this was Natasha, she’d always know. The nerves became like live wires: he hadn’t heard Natasha enter, how hadn’t he-

“James, are you okay?” She asked, stepping forward cautiously, arm raising like she was going to reach out for him but knew she shouldn’t. She took another step, carefully, toe first, like a gazelle approaching a lion: running straight towards death. “James-“

“I can hear you,” he spat, fists clenched, eyes trained on the sleekly varnished floorboards.

“Soldat?”

“No,” he hissed emphatically. “Bucky. I already replied, did I not?”

“You’re frustrated, I get it but don’t take it out on me. I don’t know what happened-“

“Whenever you say that, you know _exactly_ what happened.”

She examined him, eyes narrowed. “You’re right, I do know what happened. But still, that’s no reason to take your frustration out on me. Steve made his choices-“

Bucky span, eyes wide and ravenous. “The wrong choice. He’s in danger.” His eyes shot up, over Natasha’s head and at the door. Like the mind finally solidified in his mind, he forced out, “I need to get to him.”

“James, you’re letting your paranoia take over you again. This whole situation with Steve is taking you twenty steps backwards. We were making process and now look. Do you not see-“

“I see,” he hissed slowly, looming over Natasha, “exactly what I need to do. I’m not reverting. Steve just needs me. He doesn’t know how to protect himself.”

“Maybe not but he still has the serum in his veins. That will get him out of most problems. He can overpower Tony easily.”

“He can’t overpower a _gun_. He can’t overpower _tools_ , tools used to experiment-”

“You’re pushing yourself onto a situation again. This isn’t about you. Tony isn’t HYDRA.”

“Isn’t he?! For all I know, he is! Get out of my way-“ He pushed Natasha aside, striding towards the door. “James don’t,” she warned, clutching Bucky’s arm.

“GET OFF ME!” He screamed, throwing her across the room. “I have already shown you what I am willing to do to you and I will do it again if Steve needs my help.”

From her place on the floor, Natasha slowly pressed the back of her head, watching her fingers come away with blood. “Wake up from this, James. You know the last time I saw you like this? It was in the Red Room.” He stopped in his tracks, looking back at her with sadness in his eyes. “You say that like you expected me to change.”

Natasha, like a viper, slid up the wall and found her feet, pacing forward purposefully. She stepped around Bucky and reached the door first. “I didn’t want to do this, James, but you’re clearly out of your mind.” She paused for emphasis before calling out. “FRIDAY, implement Winter Soldier protocol until Rogers returns.”

“Of course, Miss Romanoff.”

“NO!” Bucky screamed, running forward as the door closed behind Natasha. “No! Turn it off! Now!” FRIDAY did not reply; she was not supposed to in case of the implementation of the protocol, just in case she was used to recite the trigger words. “NO!” He shouted wildly, kicking at the door: it was locked, so tightly that even the Hulk couldn’t bust through. As were the vents. The windows were shatter proof. All there was to destroy was the contents of the apartment. In a fit of rage, Bucky kicked at the door again before pummelling his fist against the wall. “No,” he choked out. “I need to help Steve. Don’t do this to me. Not again…”

On the other side of the door, Natasha dialled Sam’s number, fingers trembling imperceptibly lightly but trembling all the same. “Nat, what’s-“

“James, he’s relapsed again. Steve went to do some tests with Tony without him because he freaked last time and he’s almost in Winter Soldier mode.”

“If it’s just the once-“

“This is the third time he’s lashed out this week,” she sighed, gently pressing at the back of her head. “There’s been a situation with Steve-“

“Shit, what’s happened?”

“Time travel. Or that’s what the other’s believe anyway. I’m not so sure. But either way, some guy is either pretending or _is_ Steve Rogers from the 1940s. Bucky seems to be reverting back to the guy he used to be too but that’s not working, the Soldier is too prevalent. He’s trying to protect Steve but he’s going too far. He’s become his attack dog, without Steve’s permission I may add.”

“Shit,” Sam muttered. “Is he volatile? Switching back and forth?”

“Predictably but yes.”

“Fuck. We gotta get him outta that mindset. But Steve’s gonna have to be in on this. This new Steve, that is.”

“What if he’s an imposter?”

“Now you’re letting your paranoia blindsight you too. We’ll get Steve to help. I’m gonna have to believe it’s him because seriously, of all the shit that has been happening lately, time travel is barely scraping into the top ten.”

“You sure, Sam?”

“As sure as I ever am.”

“Thank you,” she breathed, staring vacantly into the distance, wincing when he heard the thud of a foot connecting with. The door. “Look, I gotta go. I need to tell the others what’s going on.”

“Of course but we’ll talk more about this later?”

“Of course. I’ll talk later, Sam.”

“I’m looking forward to it. And maybe, one day, you’ll have some good news for me.”

“One day.”

*

The sun rose, blasting unforgivingly through the window and onto Steve and Bucky, whose legs were tangled chaotically under their scratchy quilt. “Bucky,” Steve muttered hoarsely, trying to pull his leg back, wincing at the shooting pains that spasmed up his leg. “Bucky,” he said more urgently, tapping quickly on Bucky’s shoulder, praying the man would wake up before the weight of his leg decided to crush Steve’s.

“Wha-“

“You gotta get off me.” In a second, Bucky’s eyes darted open as he recoiled. “Shit, Steve, what did I do, did I-“

“No, it’s fine, Buck. You’d just trapped my leg. It’s fine now.”

“Oh thank god,” Bucky breathed, falling back onto the flimsy pillow and taking a heaving sigh. “We gotta get you to the hospital then. I think I can get you there.” Steve nodded and tried to shift, lugging his leg along like dead-weight, careful not the change its positioning.

Their morning routine went slowly but surely. Bucky supported Steve through it all. It wasn’t like they had to do much. Showering, or rather bathing, wasn’t something to do everyday. Any eating done was minimal. Any brushing teeth was done with a shoddy brush in a communal toilet where the sink was blacker than any dirt that could have been caking their skin. Steve was still avoiding it at all costs. He was still dreading the next time he would have to sit on the mouldy toilet.

The journey to the hospital - the one that they only had one debt to - was slow going but steady. Steve wrapped his arm around Bucky’s shoulders, stretching a little, and hobbled along as Bucky held him up by his armpit. They managed to get to the subway station, paid their five cents, and waited patiently to reach their stop. Sighing with relief that the doors didn’t close on them despite the slow progress, Bucky heaved Steve up the steps and they trudged towards the hospital, a damningly familiar sight.

“You know the drill?”

“Head down. Don’t remind them about last time?” Bucky nodded and pulled Steve forward. ‘Last time’ as it was so dreadfully stated, was the time in which Steve had gone in for his asthma but, in a daze, had thought he was in prison and had tried to fight off the guards and run away. Despite his frail body, he’s managed to knock a few nurses down and damage some of the equipment. But, his face was less recognisable there than in most their local stops so they were just going to have to hope: they couldn’t keep begging charity from the doctors, it wouldn’t work in the long term with Steve’s reoccurring ailments.

They entered the lobby, decked out with old-fashioned tile flooring and white-paint walls. Even from here, Steve could see the rows and rows of beds that went down every corridor. The slightly ill were not split from the severely ill and it was clear that the hospital itself was probably more dangerous than staying at home. But, Steve didn’t have a choice. If he was going to get treated properly and get his leg set right, he had to do this.

He thought of his mother, a nurse who had worked in a hospital like this. It was no wonder that she had caught her death here…

Bucky took the lead and brought them to the front desk where he explained their problem and was asked to wait with the other, probably much richer, patients: no doubt, just because of sight alone, they would be chosen last. And they weren’t far off. The only people they were prioritised over was the snivelling rich children that the doctors clearly didn’t want to deal with. It took them until midday to get seen to, meaning they had sat in the waiting area for all of about four hours, and Steve was half way to falling asleep.

The gentle nurse helped him into a wheelchair and brought him to a small examination room where a doctor - tall, plain and arrogant and clearly a doctor who hadn’t suffered as much from the wage depreciation, lucky bastard - looked at them with evident distain. He whispered something to the nurse (they knew that their records were about to be checked for previous debts so this guy better hurry the hell up) before crouching down before Steve. “Multiple bruises and other minor injuries. Broken leg. Anything I’m missing?” Steve shook his head. “Okay, we’ll have to set your leg. But first, we’ll give you some pain reliever, please put out your arm.” The doctor moved to the corner of the room, finding a needle - unsterilised - and filled it with an unknown liquid. Steve watched fearfully as the doctor made no move to clean the needle. If anything, that needle was more dangerous than his leg. He couldn’t- He couldn’t-

“You have to clean it,” Steve blurted rudely, staring widely at the doctor.

“No, I don’t,” the doctor replied easily. “Hold out your arm.”

“No, you have to clean it,” Steve panicked.

“That is not necessary.”

“You have to clean it!”

“Nurse!” The doctor called immediately. The call was followed by the immediate clacking of heels; the doctor whispered something else in the nurse’s ear before she returned the favour and the doctor smiled cruelly. “Steven Rogers, I believe that you are not eligible for care. Your previous debt is still yet to be paid.”

“I’m sorry but we can get the money as soon as-“ Bucky tried to interrupt.

“I’m not paying if they’re going to stick a dirty needle in me,” Steve said over him, eyeing the needle with distain.

“Then you can leave and save yourself further debt.”

“Fine,” Steve challenged, hopping off the bench, ignoring the shooting pains and hobbled over to Bucky. “We’re leaving.” Slowly, though with renewed vigour, they walk out the hospital and out into the battering winds. Only then did Steve look over, watching the emotions play over Bucky’s face: fear, then pain, then absolute, unrelenting anger. They got half way down the block before Bucky couldn’t reign himself in any longer. With the speed of light apparently on his side, he span towards Steve and stopped them before dragging them out the way of busy New Yorkers. “What the hell were you thinking, Steve!” He shouted. “If you’d just shut your trap, we could have gotten you fixed. But no, you had to be your stubborn self and now we’re stuck like every other poor bugger in our neighbourhood, at home, with no medical care, waiting to die or remain permanently crippled. Look at your leg, Steve! We can’t fix that. You’re going to be hobbling forever! If you couldn’t get work before, you sure ain’t going to get any now. Fuck, Steve, if I lose my job…” Bucky trailed off, the fear flickering back over his features.

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled, feeling like a chastised child.

“But that isn’t good enough, is it?!” Bucky had no qualms about shouting, especially outside their neighbourhood - these poor families could gossip all they liked. “We’ve possibly just lost half our income because you…because you can’t seem to deal with the shittiness of this situation. Because living in these times is hard and you seem to have fucking forgotten, living your luxury life in the future with a better version of me, with a better life and fucking medical care!”

“Buck-“

“No, Steve, I’m done talking. We’re going home.”

The journey home was filled with half words, quickly shut down, and pregnant pauses. Bucky stared vacantly into the distance whilst Steve subtly tried to pick at his skin - he was itching for a fight, a way to knock his mind out of this mess and such small pain was hardly a replacement but it got at least some of the way there.

Soon enough, the subway journey was coming to an end and the looming dread of coming home was overpowering Steve's senses. Bucky remained silent, striding ahead as Steve struggled to both hobble and hop down the road, evading the stares of old neighbourhood bullies and gossiping mothers. Bucky reached the door five minutes before Steve but waited at the door to let Steve in. By the time Steve reached Bucky, he was panting, his breath coming in quickly, sharp inhales as asthma clutched his lungs. Immediately, Bucky lunged forward to support Steve the rest of the way, mumbling a reluctant apology despite his anger and led him inside. Bucky shouldn't have left him behind but his eyes were blinded by red. Because what were they supposed to do now? Steve was a cripple. Bucky had missed a shift today and he might have to beg for his job back. And in an age like this, it wasn't all that likely that Bucky would get it.

Anxiety crippled him but for the moment, Steve's health came first. Just because he was angry, Bucky wasn't blind to the ever-looming presence of death over Steve's back.

As they entered, there was no form of relief. Their shitty apartment, despite its familiarity, did nothing to solve their problems. Steve hopped ungainly to the sofa and collapsed, eyes glazing over as pain finally started to throb regularly up his leg. “Steve, what are we gonna-“

“I’m gonna set it.” Steve’s face was set stubbornly: it was the kind of face he only had when he would not take no for an answer. “I know how.”

“But you didn’t before…”

“I know how to set it if it’s gonna heal quickly. Like…like in my new body. But, this may do more damage than good. But- but I have to try.” Bucky just stared, about to step forward and stop him when Steve just reached down, no hesitance in his strength, and straightened his leg by force. His teeth did not muffle his scream and Bucky recoiled at the pain-stricken sound (little did he know that barely a year two later, that would be all he was hearing). “I…I think it’s done.”

“Does it feel better?” Steve, silenced by pain, just shook his head.

“Don’t think it’s supposed to,” he gritted out, pulling the optimism from the pits of his heart.

“Can you move?” Another shake of the head. “Fuck,” he mumbled. Bucky collapsed next to Steve and wiped a greasy hand through his hair. The afternoon sun was gleaming outside, tauntingly bright as the windowpanes rattled under the force of the winds. Steve, still fighting the pain - crippled even further by the fear that his body might just not heal this (then again, wouldn’t something like that affect him in the future and if he’s still doing all of this, he can’t have changed the timeline. Yet the, fear stays nonetheless) - was blinded by his own self-hatred. Anger bubbled up to the surface. Bucky was right. Steve was useless enough as he was, never mind now. A wave of depression threatened to pull him under as he danced on the tightrope above, fighting the bashing waves: as always, it was a losing fight. “This is my fault,” Steve admitted. “I shouldn’t have-“

“No,” Bucky interrupted. “What’s done is done. You’ll be out of work for a bit but you haven’t been working for a bit now anyway. It’s fine. I’ll just work more. The docks will take me back if I offer more shifts-“

“Did they fire you?” Steve asked in disbelief.

“I missed a shift today, they’re not lenient.”

“Fuck, Bucky, why didn’t you-“

“Say anything?” He huffed a laugh. “Steve you can’t even walk. That’s more important than my job. I’m young, strong and healthy: they want people like me. I can get another job.” Saying it aloud only made him more unsure though. It sounded like futile optimism - Steve Rogers style optimism - one that Bucky wasn’t too keen on. “But if I work more, they’ll take me back for definite. Then we can start paying bills and get you better. You can even work on some of your art projects! I’ll get you some new charcoals. It’ll be great.” Bucky was frantic now, clutching at invisible straws and matching them slip away, only for him to grab another. Steve didn’t interrupt; he had no words to say - he just listened to Bucky reassure himself failingly, trying to ignore his festering self-hatred, secretly relieved that Bucky seemed to have left his own anger behind. He didn’t want Bucky to work more but the couldn’t dissuade him. Although, Bucky didn’t seem to be working _that_ much now anyway, surely it wouldn’t hurt to work a little bit more?

Steve was wrong. So very wrong. Bucky had been working a _lot_. Nights where he was ‘out’, he was working. Mornings where he spent too long at the grocers ‘negotiating’, working. Days when he felt like going on a ‘walk’, working. He hadn’t wanted to tell Steve, didn’t want Steve to think he was wearing himself thin, didn’t want Steve to know that he was already working more just to cover for Steve’s unemployment.

Steve hadn’t needed to know then and he didn’t need to know now. Bucky could, and always would, get paid for two, even if it drove him into his grave a few decades too early because Bucky would never let Steve die on his watch.

Never.

That was just the Bucky Barnes way.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve faces the repercussions of his actions in the future whilst Steve is left to deal with the consequences of Bucky's in the past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This update is super early but I'm sorry to say, the next might take a little longer. I'm updating three others books (check out my account of you're curious. I have another Steve/Bucky one but also a TJ/Steve/Bucky, a crossover with Political Animals, and a Bucky/Steve/Loki one over there) and I want to upload another chapter on at least one of them before I update this.
> 
> Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated. Thank you so much for the support so far!
> 
> -fouryearslater

Steve opened the door, peering in before he entered, wary of what was on the other side. But, as his eyes looked through the small gap, he was met with nothing but boring white walls and silence. The door opened silently, allowing Steve to enter unnoticed and whilst he was clunky in this new body, he found that he could make his treads lighter if he positioned himself similarly to Bucky: mimicry, after all, was the basis of learning. “Bucky?” He called out worriedly. Not because he thought Bucky had gone _missing_ or anything (have you seen the guy?) but he really, _really_ didn’t want to face Bucky’s wrath: he was huge now, he looked like he could squash Steve under his boot without a second thought. Then again, Steve often forgot that when he looked in a mirror nowadays, he was met with a frickin’ _hunk_ that he couldn’t seem to match up to himself.

Steve stepped in further and finally saw what he’d been looking for; except, it hadn’t been the scene was expecting at all. Bucky sat on the sofa, hunched over, hands clasped in his lap as he stared vacantly at the wall. His knuckles looked freshly healed and his eyes were bloodshot and silence lingered around him like a storm cloud. Not even the air moved with his movements. “Bucky?” Steve asked again, approaching him cautiously, leaning down to try and get a good view of his face but it was shadowed behind tresses of hair. The only thing Steve could notably get a sight of was his eyes, which seemed to shine from his face like a beacon at night. Bucky didn’t hear him. Or, at least, Steve didn’t think he heard him. He was still yet to move and suddenly, like a wave washing over him, he was stuck with the thought: what if he’s dead? What if the _one time_ Steve left, he ended up dead?

What if he-

To himself-

What if-

No. Steve wouldn’t let his thoughts go any further. He knelt in front of Bucky with the confidence of a mouse and asked “Buck, you there?” He was met with silence. Bucky didn’t move…until he did. Like a lightning before the thunder, his eyes darted up. One moment, Steve was frowning and the next, he was held up against the wall, a metal hand clutching mercilessly at his throat. He struggled, trying to grapple with Bucky’s strength but the arm wasn’t just inhumanly strong, it was unconquerably sturdy. “Buck. Buck, please,” Steve begged, gasping for his last breaths as his face turned a violent shade of purple, like the bruises still fading from Bucky’s last murder-free massacre.

Steve had the painful knowledge that he ought to have been able to free himself. Somewhere in Tony’s ramblings, Steve’s fight with the mysterious Winter Soldier figure had been mentioned. And whilst no name was used, a metal-armed, glaring dude was pretty much Tony’s perfect description of Bucky. So, Steve knew that had fought once and if Steve was here, presumably, Steve had survived. Ergo, Steve had the fighting skills to free himself from Bucky.

But Steve was useless now, wasn’t he? They all wanted to call him Captain and he saw the way that when someone made a decision - no matter how little he’d been around the group - that they all looked to Steve. Here, Steve was important; he wasn’t the loner beating up alleyway criminals for a way of feeling strong. No, Steve here was truly _important_.

And this was like rubbing his fucking face in it.

“Bucky. Bucky stop,” Steve tried again but he was losing too much air. His words came out hoarse and half-formed, like an animal trying to imitate speech. Then, like a lightbulb had flashed above his head, he got an idea. He remembered back, back to the time when he’d just gotten here. He’d…he’d been able to snap Bucky out of whatever this was. He’d, he’d just said-

“Bucky, come back.” No, that was too weak. He needed to order it. ( _Asset. Ready to comply_ Steve needed to give _orders_ ). “Bucky, come back!” He choked out, his face making up for the weakness in his words. But it wasn’t working. Steve didn’t know that last time, Bucky had been acting. Bucky now was trapped in the vice that was the Winter Soldier. Bucky couldn’t free himself just like that. It took- “Bucky, don’t. Look it’s me, it’s Stevie. You know who I am,” he gasped with his last breath. And like a switch in Bucky’s head - almost like a memory coming back to you in the oddest of moments - he’s back. And he’s- he’s-

“What did I-“ Bucky dropped him. “Oh my god. I- I- How could I- Oh my god-“ Steve scared out of his damn mind, did what he always did: he got angry. “I was right. You aren’t him. You just- Fuck, you just-“

“I- I have to go,” Bucky stammered and fled, leaving Steve’s anger to fester in his too large brain, in his too large body in a too large world: a world so large that he couldn’t help but feel like an ant trying to dodge people’s thudding boots. Steve didn’t follow. Steve let Bucky go. Bucky didn’t come back. Steve didn’t want to him.

Not…well…not until he realised just how useless he was without him.

*

Bucky Barnes would not live to be a slacker; anything but. He was a hard-worker: had learnt that from his dad, no matter how much of a slouch the guy was. Steve was just the same - and it may have been that, initially, that had drawn them together. But, in accordance to recent events, Steve was beginning to think that Bucky really did need to slack off. April had given way to May, meaning Steve had been around this dreaded time for about two months and wasn’t any closer to finding a solution, and the one guy that had promised to help him had practically gathered his bags and moved out. They’d dedicated evenings to shooting ideas out (before shooting them right back down) but now, with Bucky out, Steve was left throwing ideas out to _himself_ and not only did he look painstakingly lonely doing it but he also met a block: also known as exacerbating all the ideas he had. Bucky had always been the imaginative one, despite Steve’s artistic talent. Steve drew on what he saw and what he knew and put it to page but Bucky, he threw wild ideas out there. He was the one who dived into sci-fi, the only book he could hold for longer than a few seconds (though, if Steve managed to find some cheap comics, he’d always buy them for Buck; he loved them). Steve was, put more frankly, just more realistic. It had always been Bucky interested in the future, not him. That’s what it had made it half as painful as it was waking up. He could remember Bucky’s smile when he saw the car floating and thinking, that’s what our future might be, whilst Steve rifled through his sweets and tried - and eagerly failed - to grab a girl’s attention.

So, without ideas and without Bucky, Steve was left to try and get Bucky back. Once Bucky was back, the blockage would clear and Steve’s grasp on returning to the future, to returning _home_ would finally hold. Such an irony when, when he’d been there, Steve had hated the future so much. Then again, Bucky was there now and for a while, that was what was missing. Now, of course, he had friends; ones that he’d lost _again_. He missed Sam’s pep talks and Tony’s mindless chatter; Bruce’s silence and Natasha’s mischievous smirks; even Barton’s boasting or Wanda’s shyness. He missed it all and it was caving a hole in his heart that he hadn’t wanted to acknowledge. Without Bucky to distract him, it was becoming impossible.

Funny how it took two months for it to really settle in. Before, he’d been so focused on staying _alive_ that he hadn’t really thought about it all that much. He’d tried to get back, sure, but he didn’t really acknowledge _why_. And fuck, he missed them. So fucking much. He missed leading a team; he missed the easy conversations, the comfortable nights. He missed Bucky’s random breaking of character. He missed Tony’s insults. He missed the way they congregated every Friday for an eclectic meal from about ten different takeaways just to make sure the team remained (as Natasha so kindly put it) ‘conditioned to like each other’. And whilst that may have once been true, Steve now, looking back, knew that it wasn’t just that anymore. He loved them, in some odd roundabout, unconventional way. Or, more importantly, he _trusted_ them.

The only person in the 40s he could trust was Bucky and he didn’t seem to be around all that much to confide in. Steve, for all intents and purposes, was alone. Whilst he had once been surrounded by a ragtag team of superheroes, he was now left in a time he hardly recognised with nothing. This wasn’t like waking up in the future. Then, he’d been scared, he didn’t know what to expect but he clung to people - whilst also subconsciously pushing them away - like they could tell him the secrets as to how to navigate this new world. But, in the past, Steve knew what was going to happen. Here, he could tell the future. And the books were right, being able to see the future was a _curse_ not a blessing. Steve wasn’t afraid but devastated. Rather than worry about the future, he was mourning for something that hadn’t happened yet. He was lost in a sea of ignorance, wanting to _scream_ at the people that they were blind, that they needed to see. Why couldn’t they just _see_. He didn’t cling to people, he wanted to shake them. He didn’t want to connect, he just wanted them to listen. He didn’t want friends, he wanted followers. And who in their right mind was going to follow Steve Rogers when he was 5 foot 4 and about to blow over in the wind. Steve’s power may have come from his mind but it was respected because of his body. There was no way to overcome that.

So, in a vague attempt to patch up his heart with a kid’s plaster, to forget the spirals his mind was spinning in, he confronted Bucky.

The sun had already set when Bucky trudged though the door. By now, his cheeks were hollow with malnutrition and the muscle atrophy was beginning to let his bones protrude: he was more skeletal than muscular these days. The vertebrae on his back, Steve would later note, poked out like spikes through thin, jaundiced skin. “Bucky, this needs to stop,” Steve stated confidently as Bucky hung up his jacket, despite the cold night temperature seeping in through the walls. “You look ill. Iller than me.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “I thought you were _never_ ill,” he drawled. It reminded Steve of himself. Steve had used to be defensive of his illnesses, always battling against them, only letting it bench him when he could no longer move his legs. But, Steve was still getting accustomed to the perpetual pain that this body left him in - after such good health, it was a pain that he couldn’t ignore. When he’d had nothing to compare to, he could accept that this was his life. Now…now he just hated it. But, with that, came acceptance. He knew that he was in bad form and he no longer needed to dismiss that.

“We both know I’m always ill. It sucks. And you would know too.”

“I’m fine, Stevie.”

“No! You’re not. Your breathing was laboured last night. And it was warm outside this morning but you were still shivering. Your skin looks, frankly, like it’s about to peel off. I haven’t seen you eat in days and don’t think I haven’t seen my portion size increase. You’re malnourished and showing flu symptoms and with my leg, we need one of us in work. You can’t afford this. I know you’re trying to work more but it ain’t gonna work, Buck. Anyway, look, my legs healing up. Slowly but surely. I’m even selling commissions,” very few, but Steve had actually improved his art since the 40s so they were giving him a much better profit. “This just needs to stop.”

“I’m fine.”

“Oh for god’s sake! Stop saying your fine. How do you feel when I say that? You _know_ you’re ill, you’re just refusing to accept it. But think of the consequences, Buck. This could kill us both.”

“I’m going to bed.” Brows furrowed and lips pursed, Bucky stalked off to the bedroom and passed out; Steve checked on him only a minute after he’d shut the door, walking unevenly to keep the sharp pains in his leg from smarting, and he was out like a lightbulb. Sighing, wracking his mind for a plan, Steve got ready himself, taking it slowly, trying to keep his leg in good shape - it was healing faster than expected, even if that was at snail’s pace - and tucked himself behind Bucky. His mind was buzzing and from the moment his eyes drifted to the window, he knew he wouldn’t sleep. It didn’t matter, he didn’t have a schedule to attend to anyway, much to his annoyance. Because Steve _wasn’t_ a slacker, and he hated being one, but hobbling like this, he was never going to get a job. Steve had once been desperate but now, his logical mind always took over - a perk of the military, he guessed - and he knew he had to wait for his leg to heal. Employers could barely afford healthy labour, never mind cripples. And fuck, Steve was a cripple anyway. His chances were at rock bottom.

As the moon hit the middle of the sky and snores erupted from Bucky’s mouth, Steve sighed. There was too much on his mind and too little time to sort it. The anxiety set in his heart like a brick but he didn’t let it overtake him. He just lay in bed, staring at the distant moon, wondering if right now, somewhere, his old self was doing better in the future.

*

When Bucky woke in the morning, Steve was already awake. He’d probably managed a nap between about two and three in the morning but his heart had been palpitating too fast for him to even shut his eyes (and seriously, his Bucky may have been silent but this Bucky was _loud_ in his sleep, and didn’t that make Steve feel even worse about the whole torture thing). Before Steve could even sit up, groggy and sleep-deprived, Bucky was up and his work clothes. “I’m out,” he shouted, shutting the front door with a slam and escaping the apartment as quickly as he could. Steve tried to chase after him but it was futile; not only was his leg fucked but the will just wasn’t there. Even in this state, he knew he wasn’t going to win this argument today - or maybe, that was just _because_ of his state.

So, it ended up being a week later that the whole thing was brought up again. Then again, it wasn’t so much brought up as it was that it reached the point that Steve could no longer stand by and watch. Just like before, Bucky came in - probably just after ten - sweat sticking his too-long hair to his face, where the wind had whipped away bits of skin so they were hanging. He looked grotesque, monster like and the perfect stereotype of 1940s poverty. “I’m fired,” Bucky muttered. “I dropped a box and the contents shattered.” The shame resounded loud in his voice, like he had committed the worst of sins (and maybe he had, if sodomy was to be counted). Steve couldn’t cut in a word edgeways, though, when Bucky barrelled on with his monologue. “I’m gonna go look for another job, though. Promise. This one will be better. Seriously, plenty of people want to hire me. Timmy even said I could get an office job. We’ll be able to pay the bills. We can pay for art school. We could even move to a bigger place!” Bucky wasn’t even looking at him. It was like he was lost in a dream world of his own creation, staring madly off into space as he listed off opportunities that Steve knew _for a fact_ wouldn’t ever happen. Bucky was ill and just like Steve, employers weren’t looking for ill workers. In a competitive market, Bucky was at the bottom of the list. And a bloody office job?! Bucky had dropped out of school when he was 12 to get a job, he wasn’t qualified for an office job.

“Bucky, stop,” Steve cut in. “Seriously, stop. That’s not going to happen. And, if you keep this act up, we’ll be on the streets in a week.” Steve hid his panic and reminded himself, mantra-like in his mind, that he _knew_ they lived in the same apartment in 1940 than they did in 1939 so he _knew_ that they wouldn’t be evicted. But, he was in charge of keeping the timeline the same and if he let Bucky go back to work, he _knew_ that this whole thing would end up in disaster: the butterfly effect was a cruel one.

“No. We got money saved up now. I’ve been workin’ lots, Stevie. But I can do more-“

“No, you _can’t_. When was the last time you ate?”

Bucky paused, staring distantly into space. “I…I don’t remember.” Bucky frowned, eyebrows drew inwards, his eyes a little too wide, his expression a little too… _scared_. Where had Steve seen that before? He knew that. It was-

It was-

The Soldier. When Steve had found him and he’d been taken back to base; they’d sat him down in a chair and he just stared at Steve with such…fear. Steve had almost recoiled, staring at Bucky like he knew he was well and truly lost. He wasn’t, the grain was still there. But, in the moment, not even Captain America could hold out hope against 70 years of indoctrination and medical perfecting. But, that day, Steve learnt what happened to Bucky Barnes when he was scared: delusion, dissonance and damage.

“See? You can’t even remember. Does that not make you think something’s wrong, Buck?”

“You needed to eat,” he argued weakly, still unable to look Steve in the eye.

“I did. And I did eat. But I won’t eat at the expense of you, Buck, you have to realise that. And look, see this practically. You already said that we have enough money to last us this month. You can not go to work. We’ll ration like hell but we’ll get you to full health. And look, apart from my leg, I’m doing a lot better than usual.”

“But I need to-“

“No, you don’t. For once, just let me look after you.”

“But-“ Bucky looked lost but finally, _finally_ , he met Steve’s eye, “but I’m supposed to look after you.”

Steve choked out a pained laugh and shook his head. “Time’s change, Buck and I’m quite used to lookin’ after you. When you get your Steve back, then maybe you can go back to looking after the little guy.”

“You’re still little-“

“Just sit down, Buck, I’m gonna look at what’s in the cupboards.” Bucky complied, too tired to argue, as Steve scavenged through the kitchen (which they were lucky to have at all. In the depression, getting an affordable apartment was near impossible. Getting one with _rooms_ : even less. But, Bucky’s parents had advocated for them and they’d gotten a discount. Still, the kitchen and living room were only one room, and a small one at that, but they still had a bedroom, however much like a cupboard it was. At the least, the Depression was working in their favour somehow. No one suspected they were two fellas committing sins when no one could afford separate rooms anyway). Steve was disappointed by the lack of substance - they would have to go out to the grocers tomorrow - but he found a small can of spam and cracked it open with much more force than he was used to needing and stuck a spoon in it before handing it to Bucky. “I know it’s a lot,” he sighed because fuck, they probably couldn’t afford it, “but I need you back in tip top shape, Buck, so eat it all for me?” Bucky nodded and although tentatively at first, he began eating like a ravenous animal, half of the spam being wasted on his trousers. But, even when the can was put down, Bucky picked the bits off his trousers, like the Depression baby he was, and swallowed them down. “Better?” Steve asked, garnering another nod.

From then on, it was Steve’s job to look after Bucky. Each day, his leg became a little more mobile - possibly because of his new, renewed movement, something he’d been painstakingly ignoring before - and he began to pick up for Bucky’s slack. If he couldn’t work then he could damn well become a housewife for a month. Steve didn’t do well being useless and for the first time in a long time, he had found a purpose.

Bucky, slowly but surely, gained colour in his face and meat on his bones. On the daily, he would apologise profusely: something that had started as soon as lucidity came back to him. Steve, every time, would grit his teeth and dismiss him. Bucky knew Steve was angry and instantly blamed himself but it wasn’t that. Steve knew it wasn’t that. He was just so goddamn angry at the situation. Him being stuck here. Bucky being sick. _Him_ being sick. This whole goddamn economy. Even the looming threat of war. By now, the streets were chattering about the possibility of an outbreak of war in Europe and Steve had to try his best not to shout out that it was the apocalypse like a madman when he traipsed to the grocers and back. Steve was angry. Unmistakably, uncontrovertibly, unwillingly _angry_.

But, what the hell was he supposed to about it?


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve is left alone in the future whilst Bucky and Natasha have a conversation about how to move forward

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise profusely for how fricking long this took but I was on holiday and then I was just being social for once so it didn't come out until now but there's a heat wave in England and it makes me want to write so hopefully from here, I'll be back on a schedule. I'm going to aim for Monday but that might be give or take a day. Thanks to anyone who's stuck with this story :) (also sorry, this one is short)
> 
> Comments and kudos are hugely appreciated!
> 
> -fouryearslater

With Bucky gone, Steve was left to explore the modern world alone. It couldn’t be that hard, he told himself. He didn’t need Bucky to help him, he added. He’d be _fine_.

He was wrong.

It started when he forgot how to run the shower and ended up having to endure a scalding hot, far-too-powerful shower, only to find that his towel wasn’t warm because he hadn’t turned on the heating for the racks. Not that his towel needed to be warm but somehow, over the last month or two, he’d gotten used to it.

That had happened with a lot of things.

Steve, it could quite easily be said, probably wasn’t missing the past as much as he should have done. There was a hard balance to maintain in his mind, one that would inevitably drive him crazy. On the one hand, the future - or, at the least, the compound - was brilliant: modern technology was a god send and Steve hadn’t felt so fed, watered and clean in, well, ever. The strength was nothing to scoff at either; despite the inability to properly control his limbs on most occasions, he made up for it by the sheer power running through him. If he wanted to, he could go into the streets, call a guy out, inevitably start a fight and frickin’ win every time (he had been advised not to do that for the sake of his image but fuck, it was tempting). On the other hand, just because a situation was great, did not mean that happiness immediately followed. Steve’s mother had told him a lot of things in his youth but only now, did this seem so important: “I know you’re jealous of them but just because they have money in their pockets, doesn’t mean they’re happier. In the end, they are often sadder. They know how lucky they are yet they have nothing to compare it to and they feel ungrateful. And it’s that ungratefulness that drives them away from happiness”. Steve thought, maybe, that was what was happening now. Suddenly, he’d been thrown into a world of luxury yet all he could do was wallow in the loneliness that beat like a death-march in his chest. With Bucky gone and little to no friends to talk of, he dwindled away the hours feeling torn between revelling in his luck and punishing himself for the sheer ungratefulness he felt for it.

The day got no better. Steve went to make himself some toast but found he still didn’t know how to use the toaster (“it’s fucking easy, Rogers, what are you doing?” “It won’t _stay down_. “Press it harder!” “I don’t want to break it!”) so instead, he tried to use the stove but for some reason, it didn’t seem to produce flames. It was simply a sleek, black surface with painted rings. How it was supposed to be turned on was beyond him. After the whole toaster debacle, Bucky said he’d revisit the kitchen another time. Sighing, Steve made himself some cereal and chomped it down angrily, staring blankly at the television screen, too demotivated to reach for the remote.

After that, his day only got worse. He tried to cook lunch but it went as badly as breakfast; he tried to read a book but the words blurred so badly that Steve ended up lodging the book in the wall. So much for super-strength being great: so far, all it had seemed to be was a nuisance. In an attempt to dissuade his anger from pushing his fist through the wall alongside the book, he tried to find other activities.

In the end, he happily settled on staring at the wall and wondering how the hell he could get out of this miserable place. Frankly, he couldn’t deny that the future was great, in so many ways. Stuff that he used to struggle with had been fixed like the problem had never been there in the first place. The problem was, to be able to use the stuff that fixed all his problems, he had to learn how to use it and without Bucky, he didn’t really have a way of doing that.

And it wasn’t like he was getting back to the past anytime soon.

Unfortunately, his theories for getting back were still very slim. He wondered if it was punishment or maybe a warning but couldn’t really come up with an idea as to what it was a warning for. Apart from reminding him that in his near future he had to get to the actual future but if he’d already gotten here, then did he need this message at all? After that, the ideas churned out like mass produced plastic toys: bad quality in far too large a bulk. He thought of the idea that maybe this was all a dream but dismissed it immediately. He tried to come up with an idea that involved aliens and kidnapping but it seemed a little too far fetched. He even went as far to think he was just really high and that he was seriously misinterpreting the things around him. That one he was just ashamed of.

Steve, by the time the clock hit four, was still staring at the wall, suddenly feeling sharp pains in his neck every time he shifted: well, the bruises must have finally risen. His wallowing was interrupted by the crisp, clear voice of FRIDAY. “Sir would like to see you in his lab: the test results are ready.”

“I’m on my way,” Steve sighed, trying to quash down the hope that rose in his chest. Slowly, he peeled himself from the sofa and plodded lethargically down to Tony’s lab. He didn’t know what was happening to him but he knew it wasn’t good. His mood had spiralled uncontrollably, leaving a numb feeling inside of him: like he was hollow. He couldn’t seem to dispel it.

The doors slid open for him when he arrived, showing him not just Tony and Bruce but the entirety of the Avengers, crowded together to peer at the computer screens. “Hello?” Steve called out, trying to catch their attention.

“Little guy! You’re here and…holy shit, what happened to your neck?” Tony asked, his arms falling to his sides.

“Um…”

“Let me guess, it has something to do with Bucky not being here?” Steve nodded.

Natasha stepped forward, body unreadable. “Did he attack you?”

“It was like he wasn’t even there,” Steve admitted.

Natasha nodded, taking in the information with little to no surprise. Someone stood in front of her, interrupting anything she was about to say with a mellow smile. “Sam Wilson,” the man introduced himself. “I’m…was…your best friend. I’m here to help you with the Bucky situation.”

Steve frowned. “I seem to have a lot of best friends in the future. I feel like some of you are just starting to lie,” he quipped.

Sam threw his head back and laughed: god this man was far too happy on a day like this. Still, Steve found himself smiling too; it was infectious as hell. “Whatever Stark’s telling you is a lie and me and Barnes are still competing for the position. Personally, I think I’m coming out top but we won’t get into that. I’m here to help you out.”

“Thanks. I just…I don’t know what’s happening with him. I know I’ve missed a lot because he definitely isn’t the Bucky I was with a month or so ago but I know who Bucky will always be and this isn’t it.”

Sam sighed. “Look, he really has been through a lot but you’re right, this isn’t like him. But it doesn’t excuse him for attacking you. That was low of him.”

“Sergeant Barnes needs to be dealt with,” Vision sighed from his position by the computer. “As of now, he is a threat, especially to Steve. He has also attacked Natasha numerous times. He’s not in control of himself.”

Tony nodded, suddenly sober. “I agree. We can’t let this continue.”

“But what are we going to do?” Steve asked, feeling lost. He knew they were expecting a solution from him from the way their eyes kept shifting to him like they were waiting for him to speak. Unfortunately, he didn’t have any idea what he was doing. He didn’t do tactics: he just ran into fights and winged it, wasn’t all that effective but still.

“I’ll talk to him,” Natasha stated decisively. “FRIDAY? Where is James right now?”

“Sergeant Barnes is not currently in the building. Would you like me to check surveillance to see where he may be?” Natasha nodded whilst Tony looked smug at his AI’s foresight whilst Steve just sighed. This day was just getting worse and worse.

*

Natasha found Bucky in Brooklyn, staring up at the decayed buildings where boutiques and flower shops lined the streets. He wasn’t moving, his hand tucked safely in his pocket: he didn’t seem to be a threat: Natasha knew better.

“Penny for your thoughts?” She said as she would if she had sneaked up on anybody: he didn’t even flinch. He sighed, though, and thoughtfully tilted his head upwards, staring intently at the cracking brick - maybe one of the few things that had remained since they lived there. “Who I used to be,” he admitted with a shrug, blue eyes sparkling in the bright sunshine.

“Grief?”

“Envy.” Natasha sighed and walked up to him, placing a reassuring hand on his shoulder. “You shouldn’t be. Your life may be different now but it is that much worse?”

“I’m in a good place right now. Better than I ever could have dreamed of then. But my head…” his gaze fell to the ground. “It doesn’t matter how good a place I’m in, how much money I have, my head is always going to push me back to the point where it doesn’t matter if my situation is better or worse because my head is worse and that makes it all redundant.”

“Eloquent.”

He shrugged. “I’ve had a lot of time to think about it.”

She squeezed his shoulder reassuringly, directing the conversation elsewhere. “Steve told-“

“I don’t need to know what he said.”

“Yes, you do,” Natasha cut in.

“I think I already know-”

“No, you don’t. You’ve been standing out here for answers staring at a place that has long since moved on from you. Clearly, your mind is jumping to places it shouldn’t.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s wrong.”

“Doesn’t mean it’s right, James. Hear me out.” She let her hand run from his shoulder and down to his bicep, clutching it forcefully. “He told us you attacked him.”

“Guessed that.”

“Shut up, James, and let me finish. He told us you attack him but he also said that he misses you. He says that he knows who you are and this isn’t it. And I know what you’re going to say: I’m not him and he’s wrong,” she mimicked Bucky perfectly. “

But, he’s not. Sam wants to help. _I_ want to help. Something’s wrong up here James,” she sighed, tapping a sharp nail against his forehead. “We want to help you to fix it. Steve doesn’t want you to be his Bucky; he just wants his friend back.” Bucky’s eyes were glistening but it wasn’t with the light anymore. He swallowed, his eyes closing briefly before he turned to Natasha. “That doesn’t matter. I’m too dangerous to be around him.”

“So that’s what you’re really worried about?”

“I _attacked_ him, Natalia.”

“You weren’t in the right mind.”

“I attacked _you!_ ”

“And you weren’t right then either. Recovery isn’t a straight line. Come on, you’ve heard that a million times. Doesn’t make it any less true. You’ve fallen back into an old pattern and it’s up to us to fix that.”

“What if HY-“

“This has nothing to do with them,” she spat. “You cannot blame everything on them, James. You were brainwashed, yes, you were tortured, yes, but this recovery is about you not them. Stop blaming them for things that are happening now. It’s true, it is their fault that you’re in this situation but it’s not doing anything beneficial for your actions to think about that. They fucked you up and now its your job to fix that, whether that is right or wrong. Life’s unfair, you’ve learnt that plenty of times. Just, James, take some responsibility.” She finished her rant by heaving in a breath and carefully examining Bucky’s expression.

She found nothing.

“I might hurt him,” he whispered like she’d said nothing.

“And you might not. Stop living by might.”

“The might is life or death here, Natalia, stop ignoring that!” He hissed, frantically turning to her, eyes as wide as a cornered animal. “I could _kill_ him.”

“And you could not.”

“STOP IT!” Silence fell heavy on the street. Any other pedestrians were quick to escape, rushing into shops, alleyways and around the block to avoid the tension boiling from the two superheroes.

“You just need to face the facts, James. Steve will be angry but he’s going to get over it. So will you. You just need to make it up to him. Come back with me. Please.”

“I can’t.”

“You can.”

“If you do that one more time, I’m going to leave and you’ll never see me again.” An empty threat.

“Come. Back.”

“I can’t be what he wants.”

“So make him want something new.”

It took exactly four minutes and three seconds more for Natasha to make him agree.

*

Steve’s test results were, unfortunately, exactly what they expected. No anomalies or disfigurements. They were Steve Rogers, through and through, bar the serum in his veins. And whilst they had never figured out the way the serum really worked, they knew it enough to recognise Steve Rogers with and without it. It didn’t seem to be the substance’s chemistry that was confusing them but rather the biological effects that it had that seemed impossible to replicate.

Red Skull had been given the serum and lost his face.

Bruce had given himself a form of the serum and created an alter ego.

Bucky was given a form of the serum and had almost the exact same symptoms as Steve.

The serum was not just a chemical, it was a test with Fate.

Regardless, this was no doubt Steve Rogers. No one had the technology to go this far to pretend nor had the expertise to override Tony’s security. The only viable secondary option was that this really was their Steve but with some short term memory loss.

Somehow, that seemed more outlandish than the alternative.

There was nothing in the test results that seemed to suggest at a solution to the problem at hand. Only security in their position. Steve sighed, looking ruefully at Tony and the rest of the group, feeling anger well inside him. “Well, back to the start?”

“There must be a way,” Bruce sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“I have never heard a similar case to this in all the nine realms but that does not mean there is no solution. Only that we are looking in the wrong place,” Thor added.

“You think science is the wrong place to go?”

“It has failed us so far but it does not mean it always will. Although, I would like to use our technology - or what you call magic - to try and find a solution too.”

“Who would be able to help you?”

Thor sighed, looking cautiously at Tony out of the corner of his eye. “My brother.” He paused, rushing in when Tony opened his mouth, face incandescent. “Don’t worry. He is in a cell and he will remain that way but, for me, he might give me information. Or ideas.”

“I’m sorry to break this to you, buddy, but your brother doesn’t really seem to want to do anything for you.”

Thor’s gaze turned dark as he looked to Tony. “He is still my brother.” Tony backed away, hands raised in surrender, leaving the room in a vacant silence, stewing in the problem. Steve sat to the side, swinging his legs impatiently, scanning the room when he saw Wanda’s hands glow red. He wanted to stare, to get lost in the red sparks but he was too focused on the fear that wracked through him. He looked up at her, frowning but she matched his gaze despairingly. “Nothing. I can’t see a thing out of place. You have shifted in time but you have suffered no effects from it.” Steve sighed. Yet another dead end, one he hadn’t even thought of.

“I have a feeling this may just be what is supposed to happen,” Thor sighed. When the room’s eyes shifted to him, he continued. “Many tales start without answers but many of the best don’t get answered until the very end.”

“This isn’t a story-“ Steve tried to cut in but Thor was adamant.

“Tales all come from somewhere. Now, I will return to Asgard and speak to my brother. I will see you all again soon.” The group nodded before they could do anything else and watched as Thor fled to room to go through the Bifrost, probably from the roof. Steve just watched dejectedly, wringing his hands together and wondering when the hell his life had become like this.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve adjusts to the situation as his time in the past starts to go by faster and faster and finally, finally, he thinks that he can put up with this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit shorter than I wanted but I'm sure I can be forgiven because this chapter actually has some fluff! +my inspiration has finally hit again so the next update should easily come within the next week.
> 
> All your kudos and comments are so thankfully received! (look at me, changing it up)
> 
> -fouryearslater

Bucky’s slow recovery through Spring did nothing to comfort Steve. Slowly, over what felt like eons, Bucky’s strength grew enough that it looked like he might just be able to go back to work, though, and it was instilling some hope into Steve’s optimistic heart. So far, they’d been working off their meagre savings and Steve’s frantic commission work but over time, they were losing what little they had. The rent was late, the apartment cold and their debts were left unpaid. Bucky seemed determined to get back fighting but Steve held him back; they had to be sensible about this. Bucky needed to be fully recovered or else he would only end up with another job lost. Still, in the meantime, Steve kept vigil over the available jobs: not that there were many. However, Bucky was young and - soon - healthy, they would be desperate for people like him.

Well, Steve could only hope.

Alongside Bucky’s job prospects, Steve looked for his own. As they made headway into Summer, Steve was determined that with his own health that he could try and get a stable job. His hobble had finally faded into a slight lean, one that Steve was familiar with and left him with a small smile at the thought that at least they hadn’t fucked up the entire timeline here.

Although, Steve was in for a tough ride. This was still the 30s; jobs were not around every corner. And no matter how many people complained about the modern job market, nothing compared to the unemployment that Steve saw when he ran for the new job that was advertised in the newspaper, only to find himself the thirtieth in line. Still, he queued religiously, waiting his turn, took the blow and asked around as much as he could.

His offers were painfully thin.

And by that, there were none.

Steve, even if healthy, was still stick thin. No one would ever want him for heavy lifting (oh the irony) or any sort of manual labour. He didn’t have the qualifications for anything more skilled and he didn’t have the entrepreneurship or skill to do something himself. And even then, in times like these, starting a business was likely to be a death sentence.

So, as he trudged home, he wallowed in his poor results and settled back into the feeling of uselessness. After all, Bucky was healed now. Steve didn’t have purpose anymore. He was a wanderer who couldn’t name which path he was on; he felt like he could have been on all of them of once or none of them at all. The only thing that gave him direction was his initiative to get home.

With each passing moment, the idea of _home_ became more solidified in his mind. He’d been so lost in the future, vacantly wishing for his nostalgia-infected past. Now trapped in the dream he had conjured, he could see what he could never see before. Whilst the Tower or the Compound or his SHIELD apartment were never home, Buck, Tony, Natasha, Sam, all of the Avengers, all his friends, _they_ were home.

Steve never bought into the fact that home was the people not the place. But you only realise the importance of that when it’s all ripped away from you. You can settle perfectly into a new space, can make it your own, but without the people you love, all it is is an empty mimicry of the place you called home before.

Steve had Bucky now, this Bucky. But this Bucky wasn’t home anymore. His Bucky was. Maybe, if this had happened to Steve before the Triskelion disaster, then he would have found his place here. Maybe it was only Bucky that was tying him to the future.

But that didn’t seem right.

He thought back; he thought about Natasha and her cynical smirk; or Sam and the way he smiled like he always had an idea, showing the small gap between his front teeth; or Tony who always jabbered on relentlessly about pointless things but nevertheless kept Steve’s attention; or even Thor who, over time, had brought himself from the pedestal of being a god to the realm of humanity and now cracked jokes and whilst still speaking like an olden-day king, managed to empathise with them on a level that most people couldn’t. Steve missed them. _Fuck_ , he missed them. This Bucky could only fill so much of the hole left in his heart.

The space that remained was filled with the crippling curse of uselessness.

Steve opened the door, huffing, to be greeted with the sight of Bucky clambering over their flimsy sofa in order to avoid getting off it and just picking up the book on the other side. Steve didn’t even know what to say: to be honest, he didn’t need words, his face said everything. “It’s not what it looks like!” Bucky shouted, falling back onto the sofa with a painful-sounding thud. “I’m fine!” He shouted again when Steve took a step forward.

“I can see that.” Steve meandered forward and picked up the book, standing behind the sofa so he could look down at Bucky, a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “I think you wanted this?”

“Yeah, it’s-“ Bucky reached out to grab it but Steve stepped back, holding it out of reach. “No! Steeve!”

“Why’s it so important? Can’t you just come get it off me?”

“You punk! You know I don’t want to move out of the sun. The shade is fucking cold! Now give that back!” Bucky’s right. Steve, standing resolutely in the shade, was already shaking like hell but he wouldn’t give in, even for the blasting heat of the sun (Lord help them when the true heat of New York Summer hit).

“Uh-uh. It’s mine now.”

“No! Give it,” Bucky tried to order but it sounded comical, even to a strangers ears.

“Nope.”

“Give it!”

“Come get it.”

“You punk!” Bucky shouted again, throwing himself off the sofa and towards Steve, who lithely dodged and sprinted across the room. Steve may not have had the right proportions but he had the skills for an easy chase. Bucky just gaped, like he had performed magic but quickly dismissed it and rushed after him.

They spent the next five minutes chasing each other around the box like apartment, laughing their heads off until Bucky grappled the book of Steve using his height alone and flopping down onto the sofa. For a second, Steve recognised the weight that returned to him once silence hit but decided instead to focus on the giddiness of the last few minutes. Steve may have felt useless but he refused to let that hold him back from happiness. He’d spent too long forcing himself into the shadows of gloominess instead of fighting for the happiness he had.

Pushing his feelings into a box (unhealthy but effective), Steve flopped down next to Bucky and smiled widely. “So, what is it?”

“Eh, just some pulp I picked up for cheap,” Bucky shrugged, colour blooming on his previously washed-out skin.

“Good, though?”

“I like it. Don’t think it’s up your alley though.”

“Why not?”

“About some tough guy that beats up a load of people that, in your opinion, probably don’t deserve it.”

“Ugh, I hate the action ones. The actual bad characters never get punished!”

“Just because someone’s powerful doesn’t mean they’re bad.”

“In those books it does.”

“Sure, sure, Steve,” Bucky deflected, as he was used to, and opened to a random page of the book (was this one he had read before then?). Silence enveloped them and Steve passed the time away, head resting against Bucky’s shoulder, sketching idly with the last stub of a charcoal. Soon though, darkness fell and with it, the misty gloominess settled over Steve again. Bucky had long since put the book down, staring into space, when Steve finally spoke up. “You’re going back to work soon right?”

“If you’d let me, I’d be job hunting right now but yeah, Stevie, I’m gonna be working again soon enough. Gotta earn my keep.”

“Yeah…”

Bucky frowned, looking down at Steve with a pained expression. “What’s wrong, punk?”

“I just…I don’t know…it’s-“

“Come on, I thought we were getting better at this whole communicating thing. Don’t pretend for me. Just say what you’re thinking.”

“I feel useless,” Steve blurted. “I mean, I’ve just spent a while looking after you now and it gave me something to do and I’ve been trying to get a job but look at me, no one’s gonna take me looking like this and now that you’re gonna be leaving, I’m gonna be left here to do nothing-“

“You have your art commissions.”

“They’re not good enough! Do you see how much they sell for? Nothing. And I’m hardly selling any!”

“You need to stop thinking like that. Look, I’m going back to work, yes, and you won’t. Maybe you’ll find something, maybe you won’t. Either way, you’re selling commissions which is getting us more than most families. My ma doesn’t work and my pa does and they have kids to feed and they get by. This is just us and I know we have rent and they don’t but we don’t need two earners. I can earn and you can look after things back here between doing your commissions.”

“You…you want me to be a housewife?”

“I mean, it doesn’t have to be called that but is it so bad? I’m not gonna push it, Stevie, but you already said that looking after me was good for you and that wasn’t much different.”

“But-“

Bucky sent him a pointed look. “I thought you were from the future where you got rid of these gender thingy-ma-bobs.”

“Stereotypes.” (Steve had given him a two-hour rant on them).

“Yeah, them. So you don’t have to be all macho and do manual labour. You can do important stuff here, stuff that we’ve never been able to do.”

“But…but I need to work. I can’t-“

“Is your pride really going to get in the way of this? You keep looking for jobs, it’ll be good for both of us but don’t get put out when you don’t get one. If you don’t just remember that you are still doing stuff for both of us.”

“But-“

“No buts.”

“But-“

“What did I just say?”

“Fine,” Steve sighed reluctantly, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “Doesn’t mean you’re right, though,” he added. “I want to work.”

“Working doesn’t prove your _worth_ , Steve,” Bucky complained.

“What am I if not working?”

“Haven’t we already gone over this? Plenty of women do a lot for their fellas at home; they don’t need work.”

“But…they shouldn’t have to. They should be able to work too.”

“And you’ve already said that soon, they will. But this is now. We live how we have to, Steve. There ain’t no room for argument. You’re gonna be helpful back here and you’re gonna look for a job and I’m gonna get us some savings in the meantime. I think that sounds about right.”

Steve peered up at Bucky out of the corner of his eye. “Fine,” he capitulated, for real this time. “If that’s what I have to do.”

“Good. That’s settled then. Now, whatcha gonna cook me?”

“Bucky!”

“What?! I want my food, Stevie.”

“You are in for one, jerk.”

“Dunno what you’re talking about but my stomach is grumbling.” Steve muttered something no doubt nasty under his breath but went to slop something together out of the meagre amount of things in the ice box.

From then on, Steve attempted the life of a housewife. But, well - how’s the nicest way to push this - to say it was a disaster was an understatement. There were many things that neither Bucky nor Steve had really thought through before they started but Steve could list an accurate one in his mind.

  1. They had no fucking technology so housework alone, done properly, took up all his time.
  2. Doing stuff properly required money they didn’t have
  3. Steve clearly didn’t have the required skills; he wasn’t taught the same as the girls were. And this shit was harder than you’d expect. 
  4. Bucky, and all men, were no fucking help at all.



Steve woke up at 6am to get Bucky a meal before work: he was now at a factory about ten blocks down, working on the production line. Then, he’d go out shopping for whatever they could afford. That alone took up the morning because trying to get the bargains that meant they could feed themselves each day was no easy task. Then, Steve had to deal with the strange looks (a man? Doing the shopping? Presumably unmarried, of course, yet he looked oddly domestic) and the urge to punch everyone in their ugly mugs. And once he’d gotten home, with _no_ scrapes thankyouverymuch, he set about washing the morning’s dishes and then cleaning the main room, the bedroom and even, if he was feeling up to it, the communal bathroom (that didn’t tend to be a common occurrence. That room was black with mould). After that, he’d prepare dinner for when Bucky came home, eat a bit himself and run out the door as soon as Bucky returned to go job seeking. As always, it would prove fruitless and he’d return home, wash the dishes with a downtrodden frown before Bucky made his usual daily spiel that was more of a string of jokes that he thought of off the top of his head to cheer Steve up.

The sentiment was sweet but repetitive.

But now, at least, Steve would never say that being a housewife in the 40s was easy. To be fair, he knew it wasn’t all that good in the future, either, but at least they had _washing machines_. And laundry machines. And proper running sinks. Hot water! God, he missed hot water. And even a fridge. He really wanted his fridge back.

Although, if Steve was one thing, it was stubborn. He didn’t let any of it get in his way. He learnt to sew properly to patch up Bucky’s clothes; he learnt to wash the grime off the plates with only cold water; he learnt how to make some semi-decent food out of just boiling it (which, if you think about it, is magic, really).

Bucky, in the meanwhile, put up with Steve’s attempts dutifully: eating the bad meals among the good, smiling when Steve had sewn his pocket on inside out and even keeping quiet at Steve’s poor attempt to clean the bathroom. Bucky was the perfect husband, for all intents and purposes. He went to work, he came home, didn’t make a fuss, made Steve smile: a classic, yet kind, family.

Well, not classic at all, Steve wasn’t a woman, they couldn’t have a relationship. But still, the sentiment was nice.

It’s when Bucky had been in work for around two weeks that Steve had properly learnt to cook. Bucky stared down at his plate, mostly empty, and smiled before giddily looking up to Steve. “You’ve done it!” He shouted, unnecessarily excited.

“Done what?”

“You’ve finally made yourself a good housewife!”

“Hey! I’m no housewife. But…” he added meagrely “what did I do?”

“This is amazing, Stevie!”

Steve couldn’t help the blush that rose on his cheeks, smiling shyly at Bucky. (Fuck, he wasn’t supposed to give into this. He wasn’t supposed to _like_ this. He was a superhero. He fought evil dictatorships and saved the planet. He wasn’t supposed to enjoy…domesticity). “Aw, you’re blushing. Cute.”

“Stop it, Bucky!”

“Nah. It’s sweet.” Bucky pushed the chair back and went to sit on the table next to Steve’s plate, smiling mischievously down at him. “Anyway, you like it, I can see it.”

“Bucky!” He shouted louder.

“What? Can’t I compliment my beautiful housewife?”

“You jerk!” Steve shouted, slapping Bucky’s arm. (Fuck, was he becoming a girl? Was this his bad attempt at flirting? Just…what?”)

“What. I’m doing nothing but complimenting my best girl.”

“You’re gonna pay for that comment, Barnes,” Steve snarled, racing to his feet and lunging at Bucky who flew off the table and across the room, already panting. “You can’t catch me!” He sang, a smile growing at the corners of his lips.

“Oh, just you wait,” Steve replied, smirking. Then, the battle begun.

Steve knew exactly what to do. He shoved the chair out the way and lunged at Bucky again, who darted to the right and leapt over to sofa, practically cowering behind it. Steve was quick, though. He turned and followed right after, forcing Bucky towards the bedroom door. Perfect, that wouldn’t leave room for escape. Bucky ran into the bedroom and tried to slam the door but to make up for his lack of strength, Steve used his size to slip through the door before it closed, trying to tackle Bucky. But, he darted away, running over the bed and ignoring the uncomfortable groan of the springs. “You’re trapped. Surrender now and I’ll give you mercy.”

“Mercy from what?”

“This!” Steve shouted and sprinted at Bucky, hands grabbing at his waist and squeezing. For a second, Steve worried that he’d been wrong, that it had been a mistake but just as he started to second guess himself, Bucky squealed, folding in on himself as a terrified laugh escaped his lips. Steve grinned manically and squeezed again, causing Bucky to fall to his knees, wheezing another laugh. But Steve didn’t relent, only continued until Bucky started to scream “stop! STOP! I yield, I yield.” He panted, trying to collect his breath and Steve backed away, relishing in his glorious victory. He didn’t even remember what the original comment was and he no longer cared; he only cared about the smile on Bucky’s face and the one on his own. This was what he had needed.

A little laughter solved everything.

A little homesickness meant nothing if you had someone to help you through it.

A little love never did any harm.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve sets the conditions for Bucky's return whilst in the past, Steve and Bucky are beginning to spiral together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally, a chapter of the right length! 4000 words, guys. Originally, I didn't edit this but the more I left it, the more I needed to do it so I hope this was worth the effort. Enjoy!
> 
> (and just realised this is a day early! Still trying to update every Tuesday so don't expect it every Monday but still surprised I managed it)
> 
> Comments and kudos are appreciated :)
> 
> -fouryearslater

Steve knew that talking was an inevitability. Didn’t mean that he rushed the process, though. Or really tried at all. In fact, _some_ people would even say he was going out of his way to _avoid_ the problem. Bucky had returned three days earlier and Steve had been doing his best to sneak around but late into the evening, Bucky had finally caught him.

It was Steve’s fault, really. He knew that the kitchen was a communal space and getting food as of late had been more of a stealth operation than anything (this Bucky could definitely find him even if he was in ‘stealth mode’ but Steve assumed he was just being polite enough to leave Steve alone) but Steve had been so hungry. And Steve was tired, he wasn’t thinking, so when he strode into the kitchen and was met with Bucky’s chest, there really was no avoiding it.

The bruises on his neck were now a dull brown but there nonetheless, reminding him each and every morning of the chaos Bucky was encased in. Steve looked him in the eye, peering through thick eyelashes, wishing for once that he was small again. Sure, it’d make him less intimidating but he knew how to work with that. Now, he felt too tall, too uncomfortable to make himself imposing, too out of sorts himself to recognise any of Bucky’s usual signs of discomfort. He tried to loom but the way he held himself, like he was trying to make himself smaller, only made him look meek. Bucky didn’t seem to care either way.

“I want to talk,” he said, like he’d rehearsed it in front of the mirror.

“Then speak,” Steve retorted, unable to hold back the venom that poisoned his words.

“Can we…can we sit down?” Steve both hated and revelled in Bucky’s discomfort but followed obsequiously, almost subconsciously. “Look, Steve, I know what I did was wrong but-“

“No, stop right there. There is no but. You did something wrong. Not just to me either. And before you try and justify any of it, I want to know why you did it.”

Bucky looked thrown off course, staring into Steve’s eyes like he might just find the answers there. In the end, he sighed and leant back, like he was preparing to tell a story. “You better not remember any of this,” he muttered before starting “in 1942, we will both go to war. Both of us, in most people’s eyes, died in that war. I fell off a train and you dumped a fucking plane into the ocean. You died a hero. I died a loyal friend. It was seen as a kind of legend. They tell it in some schools nowadays, which is odd. But it’s the best, I guess you could say _legend_ , of modern history. But, as you probably realise, we didn’t die. You got frozen and woke up in 2012. But something else happened to me.” Bucky knew that Steve knew bits of this story already but it was best to give the full picture. “HYDRA, a deep science division within the Nazi party, found me at the bottom of the ravine I fell into, still alive, thanks to previous torture I suffered under a HYDRA scientist before you joined the war, and gained the serum: before you saved me.”

Bucky stared blankly at the ceiling, pushing back the twisting hands of trauma as he plowed on. “After that, they used dehumanisation methods to make me into a machine. One that killed and mutilated and murdered and did whatever fucking dirty work they couldn’t face doing themselves. My name was the Asset and to most, I was the renowned Winter Soldier. I killed for decades. I didn’t even understand that it was wrong; they fucking convinced me that was I was doing was right. And I had no chance of thinking otherwise because I wasn’t me. They stripped me of everything I was, and had, and moulded me to their image: a perfect soldier, machine and assassin. I was a weapon, for all intents and purposes. In between missions, they would freeze me in a chamber and when I woke up, I would go through a series of electrocutions in order to suppress my memories: ones I would have fully lost if not for my own knock off serum. It was in 2014 that I got a mission with orders to kill Captain America. I did it as I did every other job but, unlike the rest, you knew me. From before. You reminded me of who I was and broke me free from my conditioning. I ran away from you after that. I didn’t stay. It took another couple years for you to find me but since then, I’ve been here, recovering, or something like that.”

Bucky’s eyes finally looked at Steve, chaos dancing wildly behind his irises. “My recovery hasn’t been all that great, though. I don’t see my therapist any more but that was more because my contract run out. I don’t think I need her. I don’t,” he repeated like he was reassuring himself rather than Steve. “It’s just, sometimes I feel like I’m still with HYDRA and it…I’m not sure, it just pushes me back into an old headset.”

Steve stared, at a loss for words before a question tumbled out. “But aren’t you free of that now? You’re here.”

“Steve,” Bucky sighed, a self-deprecating smile spreading across his lips. “That’s not how this works. There’s a lot I’ve learnt in the future and I don’t think I can explain it all to you but I’ll try. They do a lot of research into mental health now, not just physical. They understand that it’s something completely different but just as important. They always say…recovery isn’t a straight line. Sometimes you’ll fall back or even jump forward. It’s not a process that can be properly tracked. I’ve…I’ve fallen back into old habits, ones that I had when I just freed myself. I was protective of you, over-protective, I know that. I don’t even know why; my therapist said I didn’t need a reason, it’s just how I react. I’m sure psychologists would have a field day with me. But other than that, there’s the violence. I think that’s just instilled in me now. I’ve spent the last seventy years, including the war, even before HYDRA, killing. Violence is something you can easily escape. And the HYDRA thing, well I guess that’s just my fault. It’s just, when I got out, it didn’t feel real. I kept thinking it was a trick, that I’d wake up and I’d be in the chair again. It’s irrational, I know but I couldn’t…I couldn’t handle it.”

“But…but you still shouldn’t hurt people. You shouldn’t hurt your friends,” Steve argued weakly.

Bucky let out a rough sigh. “It’s not like that. I don’t _mean to_. That’s not how it works. It’s like a switch in my brain. One minute I’ll be me and then something sets me off and I’ll be him again: the Asset, I mean. It’s not something I can control. More and more, as time goes on, the lines between me and him are starting to blur and I have more control but sometimes…sometimes that just feels out of reach.” Steve was desperate to wrap Bucky in a hug and apologise for days but his stubbornness held him back. Bucky had hurt people, had hurt his _friends_. Despite his past (oh god, his horrific past), he needed to better. His position was understandable, though a little ungraspable by Steve’s old-fashioned mindset, but Bucky still needed to do better. That was imperative.

“I understand, I really do,” he admitted reluctantly. “But, if we’re going to continue how we normally do, I have conditions.” Bucky frowned but nodded. “You have to go back to your therapist. I know you haven’t seen him or her in a while. ‘Don’t really know what the whole therapist thing is but people are saying you need it and I trust them so…” Steve trailed off before he shook himself out of it and jumped onto the next point. “Also, if you attack another person. This is over. You’re not coming near me anymore. And I won’t let you near the others either, got it? I know I’m new here, newer than you, but I can’t let you hurt innocent people. Especially your friends.” Steve felt guilt creep up on him but he didn’t redact his words. Bucky deserved the world for suffering through that and coming out the other side and here Steve was giving him _conditions_ but he thought about the bruises around his neck, the ones hidden on Natasha’s body, the worry in the teams’ eyes when they thought about him attacking again. It stopped him from falling apart, or taking the words back. He just stared at Bucky, ready to defend himself if need be.

Bucky looked at Steve carefully with an expression that Steve couldn’t read before a smile nudged the edges of his lips upwards. “You’re the same as ever, punk,” he laughed. “The same as ever. But it’s a deal. I’ll go back to Theresa and I won’t attack anyone. No bullies, right?”

“No bullies,” Steve agreed.

Bucky just smiled like his heart hadn’t been broken open by just the memory of his past.

*

Steve was finally becoming accustomed to the reality of his situation: it was the 1930s, life was as good as it could be for someone in his position economically. (Well, okay, it wasn’t but it sure felt like it with Buck around). It left him more comfortable with the way he acted. He still hadn’t got work but he’d done odd jobs here and there around the neighbourhood. Although he had no qualifications to prove himself, the future had taught him eloquence, on paper and aloud, and that meant that for those around the neighbourhood, with their Brooklyn-stuck accents, they sometimes needed a little help with the official documents. He would happily write them their letters and speeches and advertisements (and he could do the drawings for them too which made him the perfect candidate). His life was looking on the up and even the things he was doing back at home were cheering him up. He was learning to cook well and with his skills from the future, he could sometimes make things a little more extravagant for not that much money: he didn’t need to pay for things like cookery books when he could do it from experience. Alongside that, he was now living in a pristine environment which was doing wonders for his mental health. No longer did he feel trapped in his own home.

Sure, things still weren’t all that great. They still struggled for money. They still lost their savings to the landlord. Bucky was still stressed at work. But, it was _mundane_. And slowly, but surely, Steve was learning to love the domesticity. He still missed the future, like a hole shovelled out of his heart, but suddenly it wasn’t so present. The future had been just as tough.

Once, he had told Sam that he didn’t know what he’d do with himself if no fight. Now, he knew.

This. After all the fighting, after the exhaustion seeping bone-deep, he’d found a sense of peace. He wasn’t looking over his shoulder to check Bucky was still there. He wasn’t afraid of going under the ice. He wasn’t afraid of death. He knew his future now and felt solidified by it.

He knew he would have to go back to the future eventually (he had to find a way) and he didn’t despair the idea but he’d learnt to accept the past and he’d learnt to deal with both those truths. He wanted to go back the future and he wanted to enjoy the past. They weren’t contradicting ideas, no matter how much his mind wanted to tell him they were.

And even if they were: who said the mind wasn’t capable of holding contradictions?

Steve was lounging on the sofa on a balmy July evening, listening to their neighbour’s radio through the open window, fanning himself gently (thankful that the blast of the day had settled into a humid cloud) when Bucky came in, sweat pouring from his skin and soaking through his white vest, leaving it practically see-through (the material wasn’t anything to be desired and, if he was honest, was already kind of see through to begin with. Not that Steve minded. No, definitely not). “Fuck, Stevie, it’s hot in here.”

“It’s hot outside.”

“Well darn, I hadn’t noticed.” Bucky rolled his eyes, sarcasm evident, as he collapsed next to Steve. “Fuck, I want to be rich. Bet their houses are cool.”

“I don’t know. I don’t think they can magically escape the heat.”

“You were rich, right? Couldn’t you?”

“Well I could but that wasn’t because I was rich. Most people had machines that do it for them. Then again, people might have that now. Wouldn’t know. It’s not like we can afford anything.” Steve didn’t even sound that bitter about it anymore, only resigned. Bucky didn’t look affected at all.

“Well, let’s hope not. I’d like to think they’re suffering alongside us.” Steve barked out a sharp laugh. “Yeah, Buck, they deserve a little bit of suffering in the heat.” Steve knew Tony well and if asked, he’d say Tony needed a little bit of suffering in the heat: might make him stop talking about the Avengers Summer Vacation.

(Afghanistan didn’t even cross Steve’s mind).

Bucky sighed and suddenly rolled off the sofa. “I’m gonna change,” he muttered, tiredly falling into the bedroom. Steve watched him carefully, wondering if he seemed any more tired than normal. He vowed to ask and resisted the urge to stop Bucky from changing whilst he was still sweaty; it wasn’t like a bath was worth it, it’d probably make him more dirty, despite Steve’s best efforts.

When Bucky tumbled back into the living area, Steve quickly shifted himself aside so Bucky could lie down. The man looked like he might just keel over. “Have you been working overtime again?” It was suggestively late.

“No. Boss is saying those who don’t take overtime are gonna be kicked. So basically, we just got longer hours now. There are some poor fellas there. This one has an ill wife, can’t leave her home for long but he needs to pay the medical bills. He’s stuck between a rock and a hard place and rest assured, he’ll be the first to be laid off if he doesn’t stay. They ain’t paying us more neither. And in this heat, shifts feel like forever.”

Justice seemed to sweep of Steve’s small form. “That’s not right! They can’t do that! There are laws…” He paused. There weren’t laws. There were barely human rights. Trade unions weren’t powerful enough to bargain. Workers were too desperate to strike. Too many people were already unemployed. Steve was desperate to gather as many people as he could and make a stand but these weren’t the times. There were plenty of protests going on, ones that he’d often been apart of, but jobs were a fickle thing to play with. No one dared lose one on purpose when they knew it wasn’t quite certain they’d get another. Certainly for those less secure than Bucky; ones that were growing old, or were just more prone to illness. It was a competitive labour market with too much supply and too little demand. Politicians sure weren’t fixing it fast. And, with the war closing in, the country’s economy - even if employment, due to the army, would skyrocket - would come close to bankruptcy.

“We ain’t protected, Stevie. You know that. We just gotta work our hardest and hope for once in those goddamn politician’s lives that they realise we really are working hard.”

Steve sighed, looking vacantly at the wall as the fuel of righteous anger douses his blood. “There will be laws soon. Ones that protect people like us. They’re not perfect but goddamn, they’re better than this.”

Bucky smiled weakly, peering at Steve out the corners of his eyes. “Glad to hear that, Stevie. Glad to hear.” They descended into a melancholy silence until time ticked on too far and it was time for Steve to fill their stomachs with whatever they could afford. That night, they ate slowly but surely, encased by a morose silence. “You know,” Steve began, pushing his hair away from his face, “maybe it’s best I don’t have a job.”

Bucky gasped dramatically and failed to hide a laugh. “Am I…am I witnessing the Great Steve Rogers admit defeat?”

“No, jerk,” he huffed amusedly. “I just mean, in times like these, it barely seems worth it to work. Sure, you’re paying our rent but for the time you’re givin’ those men, it don’t seem worth it.”

“We gotta pay our way, though. I ain’t going on the streets.”

“Course not. Just saying, though, if I was working the same hours as you, we’d barely be in the apartment anyway. Would it even be worth havin’?”

“We have to sleep somewhere,” Bucky replied pragmatically.

“I know, I know. I’m not saying that we _shouldn’t_ work. I want to work. It’s just…in times like these, it doesn’t even seem worth it. Makes me feel less bad for not trying as hard as I used to.”

“In the future,” Bucky asked suddenly, “how often do you work?”

Steve barked a laugh. “I don’t stop working. My life is work. I get up, I train, I then train others, I train some more and then every now and then, I do missions.”

“Missions?” Oh fuck, Steve had never actually openly admitted what his job title really was. Not in its entirety anyway.

“Yeah. I fight crime. No different to now except the guys in alleyways sometimes have ray guns and like to throw potions at me.”

“Sounds like a sci-fi novel.”

“It is.”

“Sounds interesting.”

“You’d be surprised by the mundanity of it, or how it feels that way after a while.”

“Well, let’s make it not mundane. Tell me about it. Tell me a story.”

“I’m not your ma,” Steve laughed, trying to fight off a smile.

“Don’t matter. Tell me.” So Steve did. Bucky sure as hell needed it; anything to distract him from the worry clawing at his mind. Steve talked about being new to the world and being attacked by gods and soldier alike. He told Bucky about a team of heroes joining together despite their differences. He told it like a Disney story and not the violent crusade it was. He described Loki as a luny, but not a world-threatening, villain (which he was sure Loki would hate). He described Thor as an aloof God, which was true, but with unimaginable powers (still partially true but Steve was becoming prone to exaggeration). He continued on about a beautiful Russian spy and her klutz of a best friend who shot arrows instead of guns. Even about a man in a suit of metal who flew around and did science in his spare time with a man who turned big and green and could smash a building with just a punch of his fist. The more he spoke, the more magical it became. No longer did Steve remember the blood and guts and the dead strewing the streets. He saw heroes in heroic poses doing heroic things with heroic costumes, smiling like they just knew they were going to win. He didn’t talk about the heart-breaking cleanup afterwards, only the funny incident with the fast food. Even then, he made it into a story; he talked about how they themselves talked about the glory of their battles.

Steve almost sounded proud.

He was anything but, but the look on Bucky’s face made it worth it.

Bucky smiled like he’d just been hit by the summer sun. He smiled like work hadn’t just loaded bricks onto his back and broken him. He smiled like Steve was his sun and he was the moon, mindlessly following the story with the fervour that only a fascinated person could possess. It spurred Steve on. He talked about a maniacal robot and his minions. A girl and boy, one red and one silver that had once been their enemies but were now their friends. And a civil war within their group that threatened to force them apart but by sheer friendship and force of will, they stuck together. And a story in which a man followed his love from sky to ocean, crossing the globe to find him. A story in which they loved and fought and smiled and cried.

Steve told his life in the span of an hour.

“Is that…is that all true?”

Steve shrugged. He’d lied more than he’d have liked to. “Guess so.”

“Wow.” Bucky paused. Somehow, in the length of his speech, Bucky had found his way under Steve’s arm, tucked up against his side. With the size difference, it was almost comical yet they made it look natural. Steve had become accustomed to his size in the future; it felt comfortable to replicate that. “You must have really loved him,” Bucky mused. “Me, I guess.”

“I do,” Steve confirmed sadly. “I would bring the world down for him. I almost did.”

“Do you love me like that?”

Steve flinched, reeling back; yet, he didn’t release Bucky from his hold. “Buck,” he whispered, at a loss for words. “I-“

“I get it,” he whispered dejectedly. “I’m not the same as he is. That’s okay.”

“No,” Steve hissed forcefully. “Don’t think like that. You know what he always says to me, what _you_ always say to me. ‘You can let me go, you know, I know I’m not him’. And every time, I tell him he’s wrong. Maybe you’re not him and maybe he’s not you but,” somehow, Steve’s hands had made it to Bucky’s cheeks, clutching his head forcefully, their lips barely an inch apart, “you’re still Bucky. My Bucky. I don’t care who you are because you’re mine. And I’m yours. I died for you and I almost brought the world down for him. But if given the opportunity, I’d bring the world down for you too. And I’d die for him. Neither of you are better of worse. But,” Steve sighed, falling back, “he’s still the one I left behind. We can’t…we can’t do this. It’s cheating. It is-“

“But _why_ ,” Bucky deplored. “We are each other, no matter how much he’s different. We are the _same_. You love me, I know you do. I can see it in your eyes. You love me.”

“Bucky.”

“No, Steve, please. Don’t-“

“Bucky, I can’t-“

“Steve-“

“Buck, stop!” He paused and caught his breath. “You’re right, I do love you. Don’t think that I don’t but I love him and I am his. Your Steve is yours. I promise you, they won’t be doing the same thing. Your Steve wouldn’t do that to you and my Bucky wouldn’t do this to me. We can’t.”

“We can,” Bucky begged. “My Steve is you. He is! If I kiss you now, all I’m giving him is something to look forward to.”

“We can’t.”

“Stop saying that-“

“We _can’t_ ,” Steve repeated, sweeping out of the room, leaving dust in his wake as he slammed the bedroom door behind him, holding back a sob.

Steve wanted to take the words back. He wanted to run back into Bucky’s arms and scream ‘I love yous’. Bucky was the thing keeping Steve alive here. He was the only thing worth living for. And no matter how much he denied it, Steve was in love with this Bucky just as much as he was his Bucky. Because, when it came to it, they were fundamentally the same. One may have been perfect and the other broken but it put neither of them on top.

Steve was in love and Bucky was left to hold back tears in the wake of their heartbreak.

**Author's Note:**

> Good luck to the next update. My keyboard on my laptop is broken so that’s not getting written any time soon


End file.
